IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


^O 
^A^ 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


ISik 


M 
1.8 


U    IIIIII.6 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


^ 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 
D 
D 
D 


D 
D 
D 
D 

D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^e 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


D 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  Mure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
11  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 

□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pelliculdes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxec 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materii 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


I    ~V  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I    Pages  detached/ 

I      I    Showthrough/ 

rrV' Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


n 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fagon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  ch'^cked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


2ftX 


30X 


• 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


tails 

du 
Ddifier 

une 
mage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grace  i  la 
gAn6rosit6  de; 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  Texempiaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sent  fiim^s  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


□ 


32X 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  '-^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END '), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrafsr  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  etre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


irrata 
to 


pelure, 
nd 


1 

2 

3 

1 


I 


T 


^ 


THE  BARONET'S  BRIDE; 


OR. 


A  WOMAN'S  VENGEANCE. 


BT 


MA  V  A  GNES  FLEMING. 


CHICAGO: 
M.   A.   DONOHUE   &   Co. 


i 


PS 


DAVIS  &  ELVEESON, 
3»«*.  tWU^e  or  tfte  Clerfc  o/  ».c  District  Court  of  the  United  State,.  in<mdjm, 
th»  Eastern  District  of  Penimlvwnia. 


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If       FtB9     «'<-      ^^, 


^ 


THE  BARONET'S  BRIDE. 


in  onAfw 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  baronet's  BRIDE. 

'*  And  there  is  danger  of  death — for  mother  and  child?'* 

**  Well,  no.  Sir  Jasper —no,  sir;  no  certain  danger,  you 
know;  but  in  these  protracted  cases" — Dr.  Parker  God- 
ifoy  paused,  and  coughed  behind  his  hand — *'  it  can  do  no 
itiarm,  Sir  Jasper,  for  the  clergyman  to  be  here.  He  may 
loot  be  needed — let  us  hope  he  will  not  be — but  your  good 
ilady  is  very  weak — very  weak,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  Sir  Jas- 
iper  Kingsland." 

"  1  will  send  for  the  clergyman,"  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland 
said,  not  looking  at  the  grave  little  London  doctor.  '*  Do 
your  best,  as  I  know  you  will.  Doctor  Godroy,  and  for 
God's  sake  let  me  know  the  worst  or  best  as  soon  as  may 
V)e.     This  torture  of  suspense  is  horrible." 

His  voice  was  sharp  and  harsh  with  inward  pain.  Dr. 
X'arker  Godroy  looked  sympathetically  at  him  through  his 
gold-bowed  spectacles. 

"  1  will  do  my  best.  Sir  Jasper,"  he  said,  gravely. 
**  The  result  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Great  Dispenser  of  life 
and  death.     Send  for  the  clergyman,  and  wait  and  hope." 

He  quitted  the  library  as  he  spoke.  Sir  Jasper  Kings- 
land  seized  the  bell  and  rang  a  shrill  peal. 

'*  Ride  to  the  village — ride  for  your  life!"  he  said,  im- 
peratively, to  the  servant  who  answered,  **  and  fetch  the 
Keverend  Gyrus  Green  here  at  once." 

The  man  bowed  and  departed,  and  Sir  Jasper  Kings- 
land,  Baronet,  of  Kingsland  Court,  was  alone — alone  in 
the  gloomy  grandeur  of  the  vast  library;  alone  with  las 
thoughts  and  the  wailing  midnight  storm. 

For  it  was  midnight.  A  clock  high  up  in  an  ancient 
turret  pealed  noisily  forth  the  weird  hour  when  "  chorch- 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


il 


I] 


yards  yawn  and  graves  give  up  their  dead/'  and  an  army 
of  rroks,  disturbed  in  their  "bounty  sleep''  by  thedis- 
cordant  noise,  cawed  harshly  in  reply.  A  little  toy  time- 
piece of  biiiil  on  the  stone  iiiantej  chimed  mnsically  its 
story  of  the  hour,  and  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  lifted  his 
gloomy  eyes  for  a  moment  at  the  sound,  lie  was  leaning 
against  the  old,  quaintly  carved  chimney-piece,  looking  at 
tJie  smoldering  fire,  his  dark  face  full  of  unutterable  trouble 
and  pain.  A  tall,  spare,  middle-aged  man,  handsome 
once— handsome  still,  some  people  said — with  iron-gray 
hair  and  a  proud,  patrician  face. 

"  Twelve,"  his  dry  lips  whispered  to  themselves — "  mid- 
night, and  for  three  hours  I  have  endured  this  maddening 
agony  of  suspense!  Another  day  is  given  to  the  world, 
find  before  its  close  all  I  love  best  may  be  cold  and  stark 
in  death!    Oh,  my  God!  have  mercy,  and  spare  her!" 

He  lifted  his  clasped  hands  in  passionate  appeal.  There 
^as  a  picture  opposite — a  gem  of  Raphael's — the  Man  of 
Sorrows  fainting  under  the  weight  of  the  cross,  and  the 
fire's  shine  playing  upon  it  seemed  to  light  the  pallid  feat- 
ures with  a  derisive  smile. 

"  The  mercy  you  showed  to  others,  the  same  shall  be 
{shown  to  you.  Tiger  heart,  you  were  merciless  in  the  days 
g;one  by.  Let  your  black,  bad  heart  break,  as  you  have 
broken  others!" 

No  voice  had  sounded,  yet  he  was  answered.  Conscience 
Had  spoken  in  trumpet-tones,  and  with  a  hollow  groan  the 
i)aronet  turned  away  and  began  pacing  up  and  down. 

It  was  a  large  and  spacious  apartment,  this  library  of 
Kingsland  Court,  dimly  lighted  now  by  the  flickering 
wood-fire  and  the  mellow  glow  of  a  branch  of  wax-lights. 
Huge  book-cases  filled  to  overflowing  lined  the  four  walls, 
and  pictures  precious  as  their  weight  in  rubies  looked 
duskily  down  from  their  heavy  frames.  Busts  and  bronzes 
stood  on  brackets  and  surmounted  doors;  a  thick,  rich  car- 
pet of  moss-green,  sprinkled  with  oak  leaves  and  acorns, 
muffled  the  tread;  voluminous  draperies  of  dark  green 
shrouded  the  tall,  narrow  windows.  The  massive  chairs 
and  tables,  fifty  years  old  at  least,  were  spindle-legged  and 
rich  in  carving,  upholstered  in  green  velvet  and  quaintly 
embroidered  by  hands  moldered  to  dust  long  ago,  Every- 
-thing  was  old  and  grand,  and  full  of  storied  interest  And 
there,  on  the  wall,  was  ^he  crest  of  the  house — the  uplifted 


THE    baronet's    BKIDE. 


hand  grasping  a  dagger — and  the  motto,  in  old  Norman 
French,  "  Strike  once,  and  strike  well.*' 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,  the  lust  of  a  long  lino  that  traced 
their  ancestry  far  back  beyond  the  days  of  the  baronet- 
making  king,  James  the  First,  stood  alone  to-night,  and 
took  note  of  all  these  things,  with  a  dreary  sort  of  wonder 
that  they  could  afford  him  no  help  and  no  comfort  in  his 
hour  of  sui^remest  need. 

It  is  a  very  line  thing  to  be  a  baronet — a  Kiiigsland  of 
Kingsland,  with  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  the  tinest  old 
house  in  the  county;  but  if  Death  will  stalk  grimly  over 
your  threshold  and  snatch  away  the  life  you  love  iiior« 
than  your  own,  then  oven  that  glory  is  not  omniscient. 
For  this  wintery  midnight,  while  Sir  Jasper  Kingslanc^ 
walks  moodily  up  and  down — uj)  and  down — Lady  King* 
land,  in  the  chamber  above,  lies  ill  unto  death. 

An  hour  passes — the  clock  in  the  turret  and  the  buhl, 
toy  on  the  stone  mantel  toll  solemnly  one.  The  embers 
drop  monotonously  through  the  grate — a  dog  bays  deeply 
somewhere  in  the  quadrangle  below — the  wailing  wind  o* 
coming  morning  sighs  lamentingly  through  the  tossing 
copper-beeches,  and  the  roar  of  the  surf  afar  off  come«» 
ever  and  anon  like  distant  thunder.  The  house  is  silen*. 
as  the  tomb — so  horribly  silent  that  the  cold  drops  star*', 
out  on  the  face  of  the  tortured  man.  Who  knows?  Death 
has  been  on  the  threshold  of  that  upper  chamber  all  nights 
waiting  for  his  prey.  This  awful  hush  may  be  the  paean 
that  proclaim,,  that  he  is  master! 

A  tap  at  the  door.  The  baronet  paused  in  his  stride  ami 
turned  his  blood-shot  eyes  that  way.  His  very  voice  was 
hollow  and  unnatural  as  he  said: 

**  Come  in." 

A  servant  entered — the  same  who  had  gone  his  errand. 

*'  The  Reverend  Cyrus  Green  is  here,  sir.  Shall  1  shoj^^ 
him  up?" 

"  Yes — no — I  can  not  see  him.  Show  him  into  thft 
drawing-room  until  he  is  needed." 

"  He  will  not  be  needed,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow,  and 
Doctor  Parker  Godroy  came  briskly  forward.  "  My  dea" 
Sir  Jasper,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you!  All  is  well, 
thank  Heaven,  and — it  is  a  son!" 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  sunk  into  a  seat^  thrilling  horn 


8 


THE    BAllONKl'S    DUIDE. 


head  to  foot,  turning  sick  and  faint  in  the  suddon  rovulsiou 
from  despair  to  hope. 

"  Saved ?"  he  said,  in  a  gasping  whisper.    *'  Both?" 

*'  Both,  my  dear  Sir  Jasper!"  the  doctor  responded, 
cordially.  "  Your  good  lady  is  very  much  prostrated — ex- 
hausted—but that  was  to  be  looked  for,  you  know;  and 
the  baby— ah!  the  finest  boy  1  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
presenting  to  an  admiring  world  within  ten  years.  Come 
and  see  them!" 

*'  May  1?"  the  baronet  cried,  starting  to  his  feet. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  Sir  Jasper — most  certainly.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  to  hinder — only  be  a  little  cautious, 
you  know.  Our  good  lady  mustn't  be  excited  the  least  in 
life.  She  must  be  kept  composed  and  quiet,  and  left  to 
sleep;  and  you  will  just  take  one  peep  and  go.  We  won't 
need  the  Reverend  Cyrus  this  bout." 

He  led  the  way  from  the  library,  rubbing  his  hands  a« 
your  brisk  little  physicians  do,  up  a  grand  stair-way  where 
you  might  have  driven  a  coach  and  four,  and  into  a  lofty 
and  most  magnificently  furnished  bed-chamber. 

The  sick  lady  lay  in  a  bed  in  the  center  of  the  room — a 
lofty,  four-posted  affair,  carved  and  quaint  and  old  as  the 
hills,  and  covered  and  draped  with  white.  But  whiter  than 
the  draperies — whiter  than  the  winter  snow — her  face 
looked  up  from  the  pillows,  awfully  corpse-like  in  its 
deathly  pallor.  The  eyes  were  closed;  the  small,  bloodless 
hands  lay  loose  on  the  counterpane.  In  her  shroud  and 
winding-sheet  she  would  never  look  more  ghastly  than 
that. 

*'  Quiet,  now — quiet,"  the  doctor  whispered,  warningiy. 
'*  Excite  her,  and  I  won^t  be  answerable  for  the  result." 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  replied  with  a  rapid  gesture,  and 
walked  forward  to  the  bed.  His  own  face  was  perfectly 
colorless,  and  his  lips  were  twitching  with  intense  sup- 
pressed feeling.     He  bent  above  the  still  form. 

"  Olivia,"  he  said,  "  my  darling,  my  darling!" 

The  heavy  eyelids  fluttered  and  lifted,  and  a  pair  of 
haggard,  dark  eyes  gazed  up  at  him.  A  wan  smile  parted 
those  pallid  lips. 

"  Dear  Jasper!  I  knew  you  would  come.  Have  yoi* 
seen  the  baby?    It  is  a  boy. " 

*'  My  own,  I  have  thought  only  of  you.  My  poor,  pala 
wife,  how  awfully  death-like  you  lookl" 


THE    BARONET'S    BRTDl. 


••  But  I  am  not  going  to  die— Doctor  Godroy  aays  so,** 
wniling  gontly.     '*  Anil  now  you  must  go,  for  I  can  not 


fi 


tttlk.     Only  kiss  me  first,  and  look  at  the  baby.' 

Her  voice  was  the  merest  whisper,  lie  pressed  his  Idpa 
passionately  to  the  white  face  and  rose  up.  Nurse  and 
baby  sat  in  state  by  the  fire,  and  a  slender  gi^l  of  fifteen 
years  knelt  beside  them,  and  gazed  in  a  sort  oi  rapture  at 
the  infant  prodigy. 

'•  Look,  papa — look!  The  loveliest  little  thing,  and 
nurse  says  the  very  picture  of  you!" 

The  young  girl — Miss  Mildred  Kingsland,  and  until  to- 
night the  baronet's  only  child — pulled  away  a  profusion  of 
Jlannel  and  displayed  triumphantly  a  little  red,  wrinkled 
face.  Not  very  lovely,  certainly;  but  Sir  Jasper  Kings- 
land's  eyes  lighted  with  pride  and  joy  as  he  looked,  tor 
was  it  not  a  boy?  Had  he  not  at  last,  after  weary,  weary 
waiting,  the  desire  of  his  heart — a  son  to  inherit  the  estate 
and  perpetuate  the  ancient  name? 

*'  It  IS  so  sweet,  papa!*'  Miss  Mildred  whispered,  her 
finiall,  rather  sickly  face  quite  radiant;  **  and  its  eyes  are 
the  image  of  yours.  He's  asleep  now,  you  know,  and  you 
can't  see  them.  And  look  at  the  dear,  darling  little  hands 
and  fingers  and  feet,  and  the  speck  of  a  nose  and  the  dot 
of  a  mouth!  Oh,  papa!  isn't  it  splendid  to  have  a  baby 
in  the  house?" 

"  Very  splendid,"  said  papa,  relaxing  into  a  smile.  **  A 
fine  little  lellow,  nurse!  There,  cover  him  up  again  and 
let  him  sleep.  We  must  take  extra  care  oi  the  heir  of 
Kingsland  Court.  And,  Mildred,  child,  you  should  be  in 
bed.  One  o'clock  is  no  hour  for  little  girls  to  be  out  of 
their  nests." 

*'  Oh,  papa!"  reproachfully;  "as  if  I  could  sleep  and 
not  see  the  baby!" 

"  Well,  you  have  seen  it,  and  now  run  away  to  your 
room.  Mamma  and  baby  both  want  to  sleep,  and  norae 
doesn't  need  you,  I  am  sure. " 

*'  That  I  don't,"  said  nurse,  "  nor  the  doctor,  either. 
So  run  away.  Miss  Milly,  and  go  to  sleep  yourself.  The 
baby  will  be  here,  all  safe  for  you,  in  the  morning." 

The  little  girl — a  flaxen-haired,  pretty-featur^  child-^ 
kissed  the  baby,  kissed  papa,  and  dutifully  departed.  Sir 
Jasper  followed  her  out  of  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and 
^ttck  into  the  library,  with  the  face  of  a  man  who  has  jost 


\0 


THE    baronet's    TiniDE. 


l\ 


\j 


t,een  reprioved  from  sndtlon  death.  As  he  ro-ontered  tho 
library,  lio  piiused  and  .sturtod  a  stop  ba(!k,  f,ardnf?  lixodly 
at  one  of  tlio  windows.  Tho  heavy  curtain  had  been 
partially  drawn  back,  and  a  wlilto,  Hpoctral  face  was  glued 
to  the  ^dasa,  glarin'j;  in. 

'*  Who  have  we  hero?"  said  tho  baronet  to  himsolf; 
"  tliat  face  can  belong  to  no  one  in  the  house." 

Ho  walkt'd  straight  to  the  window  — the  face  novor 
moved.  Ho  could  see  tho  snow  falling  noiselessly,  rapidly 
— the  ground  covered,  the  spectral  face  set  in  a  wintcsry 
frame  of  white  ilakes.  A  hand  was  raised  and  tapped  on 
the  glass.     A  voice  outside  spoko: 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  open  and  lot  mo  in,  before  I  per- 
ish in  this  bitter  storm.  ^' 

Sir  .Jasper  Kingsland  opened  tho  window  and  Hung  it 
wide.  A  rush  of  bitter  wind,  a  shower  of  snow  whirled  in 
his  face. 

"  Enter!  whoever  you  are,"  ho  said.  "  No  one  shall 
ask  in  vain  at  Kingsland,  this  happy  nij^ht.*' 

He  stepped  back,  and,  all  covered  with  snow,  the  mid- 
night intruder  entered  and  stood  before  him.  And  Sir 
Ja9[)er  Kingsland  saw  tho  strangest-looking  creature  he 
had  ever  beheld  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ACHMET   THE   ASTROLOGER. 

An  old  man,  yet  tall  and  upright,  wearing  a  trailing 
fjfoak  of  dull  black,  long  gray  hair  flowing  ovor  the  shoul- 
ders, and  tight  to  the  scalp  a  skull-cap  of  black  velvet. 
A  patriarchal  beard,  abundant  and  silver-white,  streamed 
down  his  breast,  and  out  of  a  dull,  white  face,  seamed  and 
wrinkled,  looked  a  pair  of  eyes  piercing  and  black. 

Sir  Jasper  took  a  step  backward,  and  regarded  this 
singular  apparition  in  undisguised  wonder.  Tho  old  man 
folded  his  arms  across  his  bosom  and  made  him  a  profound 
Oriental  salaam. 

*'  The  Lord  of  Kingsland  gazes  in  amaze  at  the  u)i  in- 
vited midnight  stranger.  And  yet  I  think  destiny  has 
gent  me  hither." 

"  Who  are  you?"  the  baronet  demanded.  "  What 
jugglery  is  this?  Are  you  dressed  for  an  Eastern  dervish 
m  a  melodrama,  and  have  you  come  here  to  play  a  prac- 


n 


c* 


THE    BATIONET'S    BRIDE. 


u 


ti(.'al  joko?  I  am  afraid  T  can  not  appreciate  tho  humo*? 
of  tliu  iniiHfiuorailo.     Wlio  am  yoii?"  HLonily. 

Tlio  old  man  folded  Ids  arms  aguiii,  and  onco  more  boat 
sorvihdy  lev;. 

*'  Ml'U  call  mo  Achmot  tho  Astrolofj^or.'* 


(( 


An 


urftroiogor.'' 


Jfiirnpli!  your  bhick 


art,  it  seoniB, 
"  rotor  ted 


could  not  j)r()tLH!t  you  from  a  .January  storm, 
Sir  Jasper,  with  a  cynical  snoor.  "  Jitit  como  m — coma 
in.  Astrologer  or  demon,  or  whatever  you  are,  you  look 
too  old  a  nnm  to  bo  abroad  such  a  night,  wlien  wo  would 
not  turn  an  enemy's  dog  from  tho  house.  The  doors  oii 
Kingaland  are  never  closed  to  tho  tired  wayfarer,  and  oJ: 
all  nights  in  tho  ^ear  they  should  not  bo  closed  to-night/" 

'*  When  an  heir  is  born  to  an  ancient  name  and  a  prince-* 
]y  inheritance,  you  spoak  rightly,  iny  Lord  of  Kingsland.'' 

Sir  Jasper  was  closing  the  window;  but  at  the  gentl** 
murmured  words  ho  facsed  sharply  round. 

*'  How  say  you?  What  do  you  know  of  the  events  ofc 
this  night.  Sir  Astrologer?'* 

•'  Much,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,  and  for  the  very  reasort 
you  deride — because  1  am  an  astrologer.  I  read  the  stars* 
and  I  lift  tho  veil  of  the  future,  and,  lol  I  behold  your  lif*^ 
years  before  you  have  lived  it!" 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  laughed  a  cynical,  unbelieving 
laugh. 

"  You  jeer  at  mo,  you  scoff  at  my  words,"  murmured  th« 
old  man,  in  soft,  steady  tones,  *'  and  yet  there  was  no  one 
to  toll  me  on  my  way  here  that  a  sou  and  heir  had  been 
born  to  tho  house  of  Kingsland  within  the  past  hour. " 

Ho  lifted  his  arm  and  pointed  to  the  clock,  his  full, 
dark  eyes  fixed  in  a  powerful  gaze  upon  the  baronet's 
changing  face.  There  was  majesty  in  his  mien,  a  lofty 
grace  in  tho  gesture,  a  thrilling  sweetness  in  his  voice,  that 
indescribably  fascinated  the  listener. 

"  You  deride  the  power  1  profess,  yet  every  day  yon 
quote  your  English  poet,  and  believe  him  when  he  says: 
*  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  aro 
dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.'  But  I  am  accustomed  to 
derision,  and  it  does  not  offend  me.  Let  me  prove  my 
power,  so  that  even  the  most  resolute  skeptic  dare  doub^ 
no  longer.  Judge  of  my  skill  to  read  the  future  by  mf 
ability  in  reading  the  past.  I  have  come  here — 1  hav« 
taken  a  long  journey  to  look  into  the  future  of  your  new 


II 


'I 


18 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDE. 


born  son.    Before  I  begin,  let  me  look  into  the  past  of  hia 
father.     Sir  Jasper  Kincjsland,  let  n»e  read  your  palm." 

But  Sir  Jasper  drew  back,  his  pale,  patrician  face  eold 
ond  set  in  proud  surprise. 

"  You  hare  taken  a  long  journey  to  look  into  the  future 
©f  my  son?  Pray,  my  good  astrologer,  what  is  my  son  to 
you?" 

**  That  is  my  secret.  Sir  Jasper,  and  my  secrets  1  keep. 
Come,  hold  forth  your  hand,  and  test  my  skill." 

'*  Why  should  I?  Even  if  you  can  bring  before  me  my 
past  life,  of  what  use  will  it  be,  since  I  must  know  all  bet- 
ter than  you?" 

*'  My  power  to  read  the  past  may  prove  my  power  ,0 
read  the  future." 

"  Nay,  you  may  easily  know  the  past,  without  magic»> 
skill.  Many  thanks,  my  venerable  friend,  but  I  will  no* 
put  your  necromancy  to  the  test. " 

The  astrologer  folded  his  arms,  and  looked  the  haughty 
baronet  straight  in  the  eyes  until  he  quailed. 

"Is   Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  afraid?"   he  said,  slowly 
*'  Surely  not,  for  verily  he  comes  of  a  daring  race.     And 
yel  it  seems  like  it." 

The  baronet  made  a  stride  forward,  with  eyes  that  blazed 
suddenly  like  flames. 

"By  Heaven!  if  a  younger  man  had  spoken  thoso 
words  I  would  have  hurled  him  by  the  throat  from  yonder 
window.  Be  careful  of  your  words,  old  man,  else  even 
your  hoary  hairs  may  fail  to  save  you." 

Once  more  the  astrologer  bent  servilely. 

"  1  cry  your  mercy,  my  haughty  Lord  of  Kingsland. 
It  shall  be  as  you  say.  I  will  depart  as  I  came.  1  will 
not  serve  you  nor  your  new-born  son,  since  you  refuse  to 
be  served.  I  will  depart  at  once.  I  fear  no  earthly  storm. 
Good-night,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland.  Look  to  the  heir  of 
your  house  yourself.  "When  '  angels  unaware '  visit  you 
again,  treat  them  better  than  you  have  treated  me. " 

With  a  gesture  indescribably  grand  and  kingly,  the  sil- 
ver-haired old  man  turned  to  go,  folding  his  long  cloak 
about  him.     But  the  voice  of  the  baronet  called  him  bacL 

"  Stay,"  he  said.  "  You  speak  of  serving  my  son^ 
What  danger  threatens  hi's  infant  life  that  you  can  avert?*' 

"  I  know  of  none.     I  have  not  cast  the  horoscope  yet.'* 
Then  you  wish  to  d©  so?'" 


1 


"  rin 


V> 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


IJ^ 


**  With  your  good  permission.  I  have  taken  a  long  and 
toilsome  journey  for  that  very  purpose.  Sir  Jasper  Kings- 
land.^' 

"  Then  you  shall,"  the  baronet  cried,  yielding  to  a  swift 
impulse — '*  you  shall  cast  his  horoscope.  If  it  can  avert 
no  evil,  it  can,  at  least,  cause  none.  But,  first,  there  is 
no  action  without  its  ruling  motive.  What  are  me  or 
mine  to  you,  to  make  you  take  a  long  and  toilsome  jour* 
ney  on  our  account?^' 

The  old  man  paused,  drawn  up  to  his  fullest  height,  im" 
posing  as  a  new  King  Lear,  his  deep,  dark  eyes  glowing 
with  inward  fire. 

**  1  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  voice.  "  Yeari* 
ago.  Sir  Jasper,  when  you  were  a  young  man,  you  did  as- 
honor  and  a  service  to  one  1  dearly  love;  that  I  have  nevei' 
forgotten  and  never  will  forget!  You  have  ceased  to  re 
member  it  years  ago,  no  doubt;  but  ]  never  have,  nor  eve>' 
will  until  my  dying  day." 

The  baronet  stared. 

*'A  service!  an  honor!  What  could  it  have  been?  X 
recollect  nothing  of  it." 

*'  I  expected  as  much;  but  my  memory  is  a  good  one 
It  is  stamped  on  my  heart  forever.  Great  men  like  Si/* 
Jasper  Kingsland,  grandees  of  the  land,  forget  these  littlf 
things  rendered  to  the  scum  and  offal,  but  the  scum  ancfi 
offal  cherish  them  eternally.  I  owe  you  a  long  debt.  Sir* 
Jasper,  and  I  will  pay  it  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  so  helt- 
me  God!" 

His  black  eyes  blazed,  his  low  voice  rose,  his  arm  up 
lifted  fiercely  for  an  instant  in  dire  meuace.     Then,  quick 
as  lightning  flashes,  all  was  transformed.     The  eyes  were 
bent  upon  the  carpet,  the  arms  folded,  the  voice  sunk, 
•of  I  and  servile. 

*' Forgive  me!"  he  murmured.  "In  my  gratitude  I 
forget  myself.  But  you  have  my  motive  in  coming  here 
— the  desire  to  repay  you;  to  look  into  the  future  of  your 
son;  to  see  the  evils  that  may  threaten  his  youth  and  man- 
hood, and  to  place  you  on  your  guard  against  them. 
*  Forewarned  is  forearmed,'  you  know.  Do  not  doubt  mj 
power.  In  far-off  Oriental  land?,  under  the  golden  star? 
of  Syria,  I  learned  the  lore  of  the  wise  men  of  the  East.  J 
learned  to  read  the  stars  as  you  Englishmen  read  youi 


14 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDE. 


I! 


printed  books.  Believe  and  trust,  and  let  me  cast  tbo 
horoscope  of  your  sou.'' 

'*  First  let  me  test  your  vaunted  power.  Show  me  my 
past  before  you  show  me  ..ij  son's  future.'* 

He  held  forth  his  hand  with  a  cynical  smile.  The  old 
man  took  it  gravely. 

"  As  you  will.  Past  and  future  are  alike  to  me — savi 
that  the  past  is  easier  to  read.  Ah!  a  palm  seamed  au-i 
crossed  and  marked  with  troubled  lines.     Forty  years  havo 


not  gone  and  left  no  trace  behind — " 
"  Forty  years!"  interrupted  Sir  Js 


asper,  with  sneering 
emphasis!^    ""  Pray  do  not  bungle  in  the  very  beginning. 

"  1  bungle  not,"  answered  Achmet,  sternly.  "  Forty 
years  ago,  on  the  third  of  next  month,  you,  Jasper  South- 
down Kingsland,  were  born  beneath  this  very  roof,  " 

The  baronet  looked  considerably  surprised  at  this  verv 
minute  statement. 

'*  Right!"  he  said.     "  You  know  my  age.    But  go  on.'' 

*'  Your  boyhood  you  passed  here — quiet,  eventless  year« 
— with  a  commonplace  mother  and  a  dull,  proud  father 
At  ten,  your  mother  went  to  her  grave.  At  twelve,  th** 
late  Sir  Noel  followed  her.  At  thirteen,  you,  a  lonelv 
orphan,  were  removed  from  this  house  to  London  in  the 
charge  of  a  guardian  that  you  hated.     Am  1  not  right?" 

"  You  are.     Pray  go  on." 

*'  At  fourteen,  you  went  to  Rugby  to  school.  From  tha^""- 
time  until  you  attained  your  majority  your  life  pussed  in 
public  schools  and  universities,  harmlessly  and  monotonous 
ly  enough.  At  twenty-one,  you  left  Cambridge,  anf* 
started  to  make  the  grand  tour.  Your  life  just  then  gav* 
the  promise  of  bright  and  brilliant  thiiigs.  You  wer« 
tolerably  clever;  you  were  young  and  handsome,  and  heir 
to  a  noble  inheritance.  Your  life  was  to  be  the  life  of  a 
great  and  good  man — a  benefactor  of  the  human  race. 
Your  memory  was  to  be  a  magnificent  memento  for  a  whole 
world  to  honor.  Your  dreams  wore  wild  and  vague,  and 
sublimely  impracticable,  and  ended  in — nothing." 

Sir  Jcisper  K"  .gsland  listened  and  stared  like  a  man  in 
a  dream,  his  skepticism  fading  away  like  mist  before  sun 
rise.     Achmet  the  Astrologer  continued  to  read  the  palpi 
with  a  fixed,  stony  face. 

"  And  now  the  lines  are  crossed,  and  the  trouble  begins. 


(( 


THE    BARON^ET's    BRIDE. 


1ft 


A.8  usual,  a  woman  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  Sir  Jasper 
Kingslaiid  is  in  love." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  baronet  winced  a  little,  and 
the  astrologer  bent  lower  over  the  palra. 

*'  It  is  in  Spain/*  he  continued,  in  the  dreamy,  far-ofiE 
tone  of  a  man  who  sees  a  vision— "  glowing,  gorgeous 
Spain — and  she  is  one  of  its  loveliest  children.  The 
oranges  and  pomogranates  scent  the  burning  air,  the  vine' 
yards  glow  in  the  tropic  sun,  and  golden  summer  forever 
reigns.  l>ut  the  glowing  southern  sun  is  not  more  brill- 
iant than  the  Spanish  gypsy's  hashing  black  eyes,  nor  the 
pomegranate  blossoms  half  so  ripe  and  red  as  her  cheeks. 
Her  step  is  light  us  the  step  of  an  antelope,  her  voice  sweet 
MS  the  harps  of  heaven.  She  is  Zenith,  the  Zingara,  and 
you  love  her!" 

*'  In  the  fiend's  name!**  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  cried, 
••  what  jugglery  is  this?'* 

He  was  ashen  white,  and  his  steady  voice  shook.  Calmly 
the  astrologer  repossessed  himself  of  the  baronet*s  hand. 

*'  One  moment  more,  my  Lord  of  Kingsland,**  ho  said, 
"'  and  I  have  done.  Let  me  see  how  your  love-dream  ends. 
Ah!  the  old,  old  story.  Surely  1  might  have  known.  She 
»s  beautiful  as  the  angels  above,  and  as  innocent,  and  she 
loves  you  with  a  mad  abandon  that  is  worse  than  idolatry — 
*isonly  women  ever  love.  And  you?  You  are  grand  and 
uoble,  a  milor  Inglesc,  and  you  take  her  love — her  crazy 
vvorship — as  a  demi-god  might,  with  uplifted  grace,  as 
four  birthright;  and  she  is  your  pretty  toy  of  an  hour. 
And  then,  careless  and  happy,  you  are  gone.  Sunny 
Spain,  with  its  olives  and  its  vineyards,  its  pomegranates 
and  its  Zenith  the  Gitana,  is  left  far  behind,  and  you  are 
roaming,  happy  ar  "!  free,  through  La  Belie  F»'ance.  And 
lo!  Zenith  the  forsaken  lies  prone  on  the  ground,  and 
tears  out  her  hair  by  the  handful,  and  goes  stark  mad  for 
the  day-god  she  has  lost.  There,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland! 
the  record  is  a  black  one.     I  wish  to  read  no  more.** 

lie  flung  the  baronet's  hand  away,  and  once  more  his 
eyes  glowed  like  the  orbs  of  a  demon.  But  Sir  Jasper 
Kingsland,  pale  as  a  dead  man,  saw  it  not. 

"  Are  you  man  or  devil?'*  he  said,  in  an  awe-struck 
tone.  "  No  living  mortal  knoTVs  what  yon  have  told  me 
this  night,  *' 


'% 


id 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


Hi 


Achmet  the  Astrologer  smiled — a  dire,  dark  smile.  His 
,<jyes  shone  upon  the  speaker  full  of  deadliest  menace. 

'*  Man,  in  league  with  " — he  pointed  downward — "  the 
dark  potentate  you  have  named,  if  you  like.  Whatever  1 
I  have  truthfully  told  you  the  past,  as  I  will  truth- 


am 


>f 


fully  tell  your  son's  future.  ■ 

'*  By  palmistry?" 

"  No,  by  the  stars.  And  behold!"  cried  the  astrologer, 
drawing  aside  the  curtain,  "  yonder  they  shine!" 

Surely,  the  storm  had  cleared  away,  leaving  the  world 
wrapped  in  a  windin'^-sheet  of  dead  white,  and  up  in 
heaven  the  silver  stars  swung  crystal  -  clear,  sparkling 
bright. 

"  Take  me  to  an  upper  room,"  the  astrologer  exclaimed, 
in  an  inspired  tone,  "  and  leave  me.  Destiny  is  propitious. 
The  fate  that  ruled  your  son's  birth  has  set  forth  'he  shin- 
ing stars  for  Achmet  to  read.     Lead  on!" 

Like  a  man  in  a  dreamy  swoon.  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland 
obeyed.  He  led  the  astrologer  up  the  grand  sweeping 
staircases — up  and  up,  to  the  very  top  of  the  house — to  the 
lof'-y,  lonely  battlements.  Cloudless  spread  the  wide  night 
sky;  countless  and  brilliant  shone  the  stars;  peaceful  and 
majestic  slept  the  purple  sea;  spotless  white  gleamed  the 
snowy  earth.     A  weird,  witching  scene. 

"Leave  me,"  said  the  astrologer,  "and  watch  and 
wait.  When  the  first  little  pink  cloud  of  sunrise  blushes 
in  the  sky,  come  to  me.     My  task  will  have  ended. " 

He  waved  him  away  with  a  regal  motion.  He  stood 
there  gazing  at  the  stars,  as  a  king  looking  upon  his  sub- 
jects. And  the  haughty  baronet,  without  a  word,  turned 
and  left  him. 

The  endless  hours  wore  on — two,  three,  and  four — and 
Btill  the  baronet  watched  and  waited,  and  looked  for  the 
coming  of  dawn.  Faintly  the  silver  light  broke  in  the 
Orient,  rosy  flushed  the  first  red  ray.  Sir  Jasper  mounted 
to  the  battlements,  still  like  a  man  in  a  dazed  dream. 

Achmet  the  Astrologer  turned  slowly  round.  The  pale, 
frosty  sunrise  had  blanched  his  ever- white  face  with  a  livid 
hue  of  death.  In  one  hand  ho  held  a  folded  paper,  in  the 
other  a  pencil.     He  had  been  writing. 

"  Have  you  done?"  the  baronet  asked. 

•'  1  am  done.     Your  son's  fate  is  here." 

He  touched  the  paper;  he  spoke  in  a  voice  of  awful  sol- 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


17 


4 


•mniiy;  his  eyes  had  a  wild,  dilated  look,  from  which  Sir 
Jasper  shrunk,  they  looked  so  horribly  like  the  eyes  of  a 
man  who  has  been  face  to  face  with  disembodied  spirits. 

"  Is  that  for  me?"  he  asked,  shrinking  palpably  from  it 
even  while  he  spoke. 

"This  is  for  you."  The  astrologer  handed  him  the 
paper  as  he  spoke.  "It  is  for  you  to  read — to  do  with 
after  as  you  see  fit.  1  have  but  one  word  to  say:  not  I, 
but  a  mightier  power  traced  the  words  you  will  read — 
your  son's  irrevocable  fate.  Don't  hope  to  shirk  it.  Fate 
is  fate;  doom  is  doom.  My  task  is  ended,  and  1  go.  Fare- 
well!" 

No,  no,"  the  baronet  cried;  "not  so!    Remain  and 


>) 


breakfast  here.     The  morning  is  but  just  breaking.' 

"  And  before  yonder  sun  is  above  the  horizon  I  will  be 
far  away.  No,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,  1  break  no  bread 
under  your  roof.  I  have  done  my  work,  and  depart  for- 
ever.    Look  to  your  son!" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  slowly,  with  a  tigerish  glare  of 
hate  leaping  out  of  his  eyes,  with  deadly  menace  in  eveiy 
eyllable.  Then  he  was  gone  down  the  winding  stair- way 
like  a  black  ghost,  and  so  out  and  away. 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  took  the  folded  paper  and  sought 
Tiis  room.  There  in  the  pale  day-dawn  he  tore  it  open. 
One  side  was  covered  with  cabalistic  characters.  Eastern 
symbols,  curious  marks,  and  hieroglyphics.  The  other 
kjide  was  written  in  French,  in  long,  clear,  legible  char- 
acters. There  was  a  heading:  "  Horoscope  of  the  Heir  of 
Kingsland. "  Sir  Jasper  sat  down  eagerly,  and  began  to 
read. 

Nearly  an  hour  after,  a  servant,  entering  to  replenish 
the  faded  fire,  fled  out  of  the  room  and  startled  the  house- 
hold with  his  shrieks.  Two  or  three  domestics  rushed  in. 
There  lay  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  prone  on  his  face  on  the 
floor,  stiff  and  stark  as  a  dead  man.  A  paper,  unintelli- 
gible to  all,  was  clutched  tightly  as  a  death  grip  in  his 
hand.  Beading  that  crumpled  paper,  the  strong  man  had 
fallen  there  flat  on  the  floor  in  a  dead  swoon. 


i 


%S  THE    baronet's    bride. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

THE  HUT  ON  THE  HEATH. 

Far  away  from  the  lofty,  battlemented  ancestral  home 
of  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland — miles  away  where  the  ceaseless 
sea  sparkled  the  long  day  through  as  if  sown  with  stars— 
where  the  foamy  swells  rolled  in  dull  thunder  up  the  white 
sands— straight  to  the  seashore  wont  Achmet  the  Astrolo- 
ger. A  long  strip  of  bleak  marshland  spreading  down  the 
hill-side  and  sloping  to  the  slu,  arid  and  dry  in  the  burn- 
ing summer-time— sloppy  and  sodden  now — that  was  his 
destination.  It  was  called  Ilunsden's  Heath — a  forlorn 
and  desolate  spot,  dotted  over  with  cottages  of  the  most 
wretched  kind,  inhabited  by  the  most  miserable  of  the 
miserable  poor.  To  one  of  these  wretched  hovels,  stand- 
ing nearest  the  sea  and  far  removed  from  the  rest,  Ach- 
met swiftly  made  his  way. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens;  the  sea  lay  all  a-glit- 
ter  beneath  it.  The  astrologer  had  got  over  the  ground  at 
a  swift,  swinging  stride,  and  he  had  walked  five  miles  at 
least;  but  he  paused  now,  with  little  sign  of  fatigue  in  his 
strange  white  face.  Folding  his  arms  over  his  breast,  he 
surveyed  the  shining  sky,  the  glittering  sea,  with  a  slow, 
dreamy  smile. 

"  The  sun  shines  and  the  sea  sparkles  on  the  natal  day 
uf  the  heir  of  Kingsland, 'Mie  said  to  himself ;  *' but  for 
all  that  it  is  a  fatal  day  to  him.  *  The  sins  of  the  father 
shall  be  visited  a  the  children  even  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation,'  saith  the  Book  Christians  believe  in.  Chris- 
tians!" he  laughed  a  harsh,  strident  laugh.  "  Sir  Jasper 
Kingsland  is  a  Christian!  The  religion  that  produces  such 
men  must  be  a  glorious  one.  He  was  a  Christian  when  he 
perjured  himself  and  broke  her  heart.  'Tis  well.  As  a 
Christian  he  can  not  object  to  the  vengeance  Christianity 
teaches. " 

He  turned  away,  approached  the  lonely  hut,  and  tapped 
thrice— sharp,  staccato  knocks — at  the  door.  The  third 
one  was  answered.  The  door  swung  back,  and  a  dark 
damsel  looked  out. 

"  Is  it  thee,  Piecro?" 

"ItisI,  Zara.^ 


>f 


THE    BAUOKET  S    BllTDE. 


It 


tral  home 

)  ceaseless 
th  stars— 
the  white 
B  Astrolo- 
dowii  the 
the  b lim- 
it was  his 
•a  forlorn 
the  most 
lie  of  the 
3ls,  stand- 
rest,  Ach- 

all  a-glit- 
^  round  at 
Q  miles  at 
gue  in  his 
breast,  he 
th  a  slow, 

natal  day 
*'  but  for 
he  father 
nd  fourth 
Chris- 
5ir  Jasper 
uces  such 
L  when  he 
i\\.  As  a 
iristianity 

id  tapped 
Che  third 
d  a  dark 


He  stepped  in  as  ho  apol.o,  closed  the  door,  took  her 
face  between  Lit.  hands,  and   kissed   both  brown  cheek*- 
The  girl's  durk  i'av.e — a  hamisoiiK)  fiice,  wilh  somber  shin 
ing  eyes  and  dark  tresties — Jigiil fd  up  into  ihe  sjdendoi  ot 
ivbsolute  beauty  as  ylie  re'. urmd  his  earess. 

"  And  how  is  it  v.  ilh  tiiee,  ni}  Ziua,' '  thy  a^-trologer  said, 
"and  ilry-  litLlo  one:^" 

''  It  io  well.     Anil  tliy^.Uf,  I'ijtro?'' 

"  Very  well.     And  the  moihor?** 

"  Ah,  tho  mother!  Poo;-  molhcr!  She  lies  as  you  saw 
ber  lafci. — aij  you  will  always  see  her  in  this  lower  worlds- 
uiead  in  life!  Auil  lie.  " — tii'3  girl  Zara's  eyes  lighted  fierce- 
ly up—"  didst  {.ee  iiini,  Pietro?" 

"  I  have  seen  liini,  spoken  to  him,  told  him  the  paslv 
and  terrified  him  for  tho  futuje.  There  is  a  son,  Zara — a 
acw-born  son." 

"  Dog  antl  son  of  a  dog  I"  Zara  cried,  furiously.  "  Ma» 
eiMses  light  upon  him  in  liic  hour  of  his  birth,  and  uytor* 
all  wlio  bear  his  hated  namel  Say,  Pietro,  why  didst  tho" 
not  strangle  the  liitie  viper  as  you  would  any  other  poison- 
ous reptile?'' 

The  man  laughed  softly. 

"  My  Zara,  I  did  not  even  see  him.  He  lies  cradled  in 
rose  leave.-i,  no  doubt,  ami  (he  singing  of  the  west  wind  i»» 
not  sweet  enough  for  his  lullaby.  No  profane  eye  musfc 
re«t  on  this  sacred  treasure  h\:i':\i  from  the  hands  of  th''' 
gods!  Is  he  not  the  hoir  of  Kingsland?  Jiut,  sweet,  * 
have  read  the  stars  for  them.  Achmtt  the  Aslrologer  has 
cast  his  horo^eope,  and  Aehmet,  and  Zara,  his  v^ife,  will  see 
that  the  starry  do;?Liiiy  is  fuJiJiled.     Shall  sve  not;'" 


If  I  onlv  had  him  hero,"  Zara  cried,  clawinc"  the 


[II « 


with   her  two  handi^  her  black  eyes  blazimr,  '*  I   woula 
throttle  the  baby  Knako,  and  liing  him  dead  in  his  father' 


fact 


And  tlhit  father!     Oh,  biuninir  alive  would  be  far 


too  mereiftd  for  him!" 

Aohmet  smiled,  and  drew  her  long  black  braids  caress- 
ingly thiougli  his  lingers. 

"  You  know  liow  to  hate,  and  you  will  teach  our  little 
one.  Yes,  the  fate  I  have  foretolu  <ihail  eome  to  pass,  and 
the  son  of  Sir  Jasper  will  live  to  curse  the  day  of  his  birth- 
And  now  I  will  remove  my  dioguise,  and  wash  and  break 
fast,  for  I  feel  the  calls  oi'  hunger.  Then  I  will  see  the 
mother." 


20 


THE    HARONET's    HIilDE. 


II 


clothing 


"  Slio  lias  been  waiting  for  your  coming,"  Zara  8ai#« 
"  8I10  counts  the  moments  when  you  are  away." 

►She  led  the  way  into  the  room.  There  was  but  the  one 
room  and  a  loft  above.  The  lower  apartment  of  the  liut 
on  the  heath  was  the  very  picture  of  abject  poverty  ami 
dreary  desolation.  The  earthen  iloor  was  broken  and 
rough;  the  sunlight  came  sifting  through  the  chinivs  in 
the  broken  walls.  A  smoky  fire  of  wet  driftwood  sulked 
and  smoldered,  black  and  forbidding,  under  a  pot  on  the 
crook.  There  was  neither  table  nor  chairs.  A  straw  pal- 
let with  a  wretched  coverlet  lay  in  one  corner;  a  few  broken 
stools  were  scattered  around;  a  few  articles  of  " 
hung  on  the  wall.     That  was  all. 

"  The  little  one  sleeps,"  the  man  said,  casting  a  swif* 
glance  over  at  the  pallet.  "  Our  pretty  baby,  Zara.  Ab* 
if  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  loves  his  first-born  son  as  we  lov** 
our  child,  or  half  so  well,  we  are  almost  avenged  already!' 

"  He  had  need  to  love  it  better  than  his  first-born  daugh 
terl''  Zara  said,  fiercely.     "The  lion  loves  its  whelp,  th** 
tiger  its  cub;  but  he,  less  human  than  the  brutes,  casts  ot^ 
his  offspring  in  the  hour  of  its  birth!" 

"  Meaning  yourself,  my  Zara?"  the  man  said,  with  hi« 
slow,  soft  smile.  "  What  would  you  have,  degrade(* 
daughter  of  a  degraded  mother — his  toy  of  an  hour?  Anc^ 
there  is  another  daughter — a  fair-haired,  insipid  nonentity* 
of  a  dozen  years,  no  more  like  our  beautiful  one  here  than 
a  farthing  rush-light  is  like  the  stars  of  heaven. " 

He  drew  down  the  tattered  quilt,  and  gazed  with  shin 
ing  eyes  of  love  and  admiration  at  the  sleeping  face  of  **■ 
child,  a  baby  girl  of  scarce  two  years;  the  cherub  face  rosv 
with  sleep,  smiling  in  her  dreams;  the  long,  silky  black 
lashes  sweeping  the  Hushed  cheek;  the  abundant,  feathery  . 
jet-black  curls  floating  loosely  about — an  exquisite  pictur<3 
of  blooming,  healthful,  beautiful  childhood. 

Zara  came  to  where  the  man  knelt  gazing  with  adoring 
face,  her  wide  black  eyes  glistening. 

*' My  beautiful  one!  my  rosebud!"  she  murmurefl. 
"  Pietro,  the  sun  shines  on  nothing  half  so  lovely  in  this 
lower  world!" 

The  man  glanced  up  with  his  lazy  smile. 

'*  And  yet  the  black,  bad  blood  of  the  Gitana  flows  iir 
her  veins,  too.    She  is  a  Spanish  gypsy,,  as  her  mother  and 


THE    baronet's    UiaDE. 


2A 


the 


grandmother  boforo  Iilm*.     Nay,  not  hor  inoLhor,  since  th« 
bh»o  blood  of  jiU  tlio  Kin,L^sl:inds  Hows  in  her  veins." 

"Never!"  cried  Z:ii-.  "her  eyes  ablaze.  "If  1  thought 
one  drop  of  that  man's  bitter  blood  throbbed  in  my  heart, 
the  first  knife  I  met  sliould  let  it  forth.  Look  at  me!" 
she  wildly  cried,  tossing  back  her  raven  hair;  "  look  o-t 
me,  Pietro— Zara,  your  wife!  Have  I  one  look  of  him  or 
his  abhorred  English  race?'' 

"  My  Zara,  no!  You  are  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland's  daugh- 
ter, but  there  is  no  look  of  the  great  Sir  Jasper  in  your 
gypsy  face,  nor  in  the  face  of  our  darling,  either.  She  ia 
all  our  own!" 

"  I  would  strangle  her  in  her  cradle,  dearly  as  I  love  her-. 
else!"    the    woman    said,    her    passionate    face    aflame 
"  Pietro,  my  blood  is  like  liquid  tire  when  1  think  of  liiniv 
and  my  mother's  wrongs." 

"  Wait,  Zara — wait.     The  wheel  will  turn  and  our  tim*^ 
come.     And  now  for  breakfast!      Dost  know,   wife,   Sr* 
Jasper  Kingsland  asked  me  to  break  his  bread  and  drink 
of  his  cup?" 

"The  villain!  the  traitor!  the  dastard!  I  only  wonder 
the  very  air  of  his  house  did  not  stifle  you!  Haste,  Pietro,, 
and  remove  this  disguise.     Your  morning  meal  is  ready.' 

She  whipped  oft  the  pot,  removed  the  lid,  and  a  savory 
gush  of  steam  filled  the  room.     The  man  Pietro  laughed. 

"  Our  poached  hare  smells  appetizing.  Keep  tho 
choicest  morsel  for  the  mother,  Zara,  and  tell  her  I  wiU 
be  with  her  presently.  There!  Achmet  the  Astrologer  liea 
in  a  heap." 

He  had  deftly  taken  off  his  flowing  cloak,  his  long,  sil- 
very beard  and  hair,  and  flung  them  together  in  a  corner;) 
and  now  he  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room,  a  stalwart 
young  fellow  of  thirty  or  thereabouts,  with  great  Spanish 
eyes  and  profuse  curling  hair  of  an  inky  blackness. 
'  "  Let  me  but  wash  this  white  enamel  off  my  face,"  he 
said,  giving  himself  a  shake,  "  and  Pietro  is  himself  again. 
Sir  Jasper  would  hardly  recognize  Achmet,  I  fancy,  if  he 
saw  him  now." 

He  walked  to  a  shelf  on  which  was  placed  a  wash-bowl 
and  towel,  and  plunged  his  face  and  head  into  the  cold 
water.  Five  minutes'  vigorous  splashing  and  rubbing* 
and  he  emerged,  his  pallid  face  brown  as  a  berry,  his  black 
hair  in  a  snarl  of  crisp  qurls. 


iifl 


1! 

ii 


33 


THE    BARON KTS    nJUI).;. 


n 


It 


*'  And  now  to  satisfy  I  bo  iimor  nian,'*  ho  saifl,  walkings 
over  to  the  ])ot.  seizing  a  woDdcn  spoon,  auil  (li-awiii;^  up  ''• 
oriokct.  "My  trump  ol!  last  ui'^^lil  untl  tliid  mornifig  lijw 
mado  nie  famously  hungry,  Zara." 

"  And  tho  liaro  soup  is  good,"'  salil  Zara.  '*  While  you 
breakfast,  Piutro,  1  will  go  to  niotlier.  Come  up  wheG 
you  linii^h.  *' 

A  stee[)  stair-way  that  was  liko  a  hulder  led  £o  the  loft. 
Zartt  asconded  tliis  with  agilo  lieetucrfrf,  mid  the  lato  as- 
trologor  was  left  alouo  at  liij  very  unmagieian-liko  work  of 
scraping  the  pot  with  a  wooden  sjjoon.  Once  or  twiee,  a^ 
the  fancy  crossed  him  of  the  contrast  between  Achmet  th*i 
Astrologer  reading  Iho  stars,  and  Pietro  the  tramp  scrap- 
ing tho  bonos  of  tho  stolen  hare,  he  laughed  grimly  t^ 
himself. 

"  And  the  world  is  made  np  of  Just  such  contrasts,"  hf- 
thought,  "  and  Pietro  at  his  hi^mely  breakfast  is  more  t^-'- 
bo  dreaded  tlian  Achmet  casting  the  horoscope.  Ah!  Si- 
Jasper  Kingshuid,  it  is  a  ve-.-y  fine  thing  to  be  a  barone*" 
with  fifteen  thousand  ^^ounds  a  year,  a  noble  ancestral  seal- 
a  wife  you  love,  and  a  son  you  adore.  And  yet  Pietro,  th^-- 
vagabond  tramp — tho  sunburned  gyp^-sy,  witli  stolen  harow 
to  eat,  and  rags  to  wear,  and  a  hut  Lo  lodge  in — would  no*- 
exchange  places  with  you  this  bright  March  day.  Wo  hav*'- 
sworn  vendetta  to  you  and  all  of  your  blood,  and  by — ^ 
he  uplifted  his  arm  and  swore  a  fearful  oath — "  we  wiU 
keep  our  vow!"' 

His  swarthy  face  darkened  with  passionate  vindictive- 
iiess  as  he  arose,  a  devil  gleaming  in  either  fierce  blaoK 
eye. 

"  '  As  a  man  sows  so  shall  he  reap,*  "  he  muttered  be- 
tween his  clinched  teeth,  setting  his  face  toward  Kingsland 
Court.  "  You,  my  Lord  of  Kingsland,  have  sown  the 
wind.     You  shall  learn  what  it  is  to  reap  the  whirlwind!" 

*' Pietro!  Pietro!''  crowed  a  little  voice,  gleefully. 
**  Papa  Pietro!  take  Sunbeam!" 

The  little  sleeper  in  tho  bed  had  sat  up,  her  bright,  dark 
face  sparkling,  i;wo  little  dimpled  arms  outstretched. 

The  man  turned,  his  vindictive  face  growing  radiant. 

*'  Papa  Pietro's  darling!  his  life!  his  angel!  And  ho\» 
does  the  little  Sunbeam?" 

He  caught  her  up,  covering  her  cherub  face  with  impa»- 
stoned  kisses. 


tjn:  lUiioNF/ra  urtiDE. 


29 


■'Mylovol  my  lifol  my  durliiiLr!  Whuii  Pietro  is  doiul, 
niul  ZiU'U  is  old  iiiul  fueblu,  and  ZlmuLIi  dust  and  ashes,  you 
\vill  livo,  my  ruiliiiiit  aiigcl,  my  blauk-oyed  beauty,  to  por- 
petimto  the  malediction.  When  hia  son  ia  u  man,  you  will 
bo  a  svoman,  with  all  a  woman's  subtle  [)Ower  and  more 
tlian  a  woruiui'rf  bi.'iiuty,  and  you  will  be  his  curse,  and  his 
bane,  and  his  blijilit,  as  his  father  has  been  oura!  Will 
you  not,  my  little  Sunbeam?'^ 

*'  Yes,  papa — }es,  pupa!''  lis[)C'd  the  little  one,  patting 
his  brown  cheeks  and  kirfsiiig  thorn  lovingly.  "  Sunbeam 
iS  jnipa'u  own  girl,  aivd  will  do  what  pa])a  says." 

**  i'ietro!"  called  the  voice  of  his  wife  above,  *' if  you 
5tiave  done  breakfast,  come  up.  Mother  is  awake  and 
U'ould  see  you." 

"  Coming,  carissuna!'' 

IIo  kissed  the  biiby  girl,  placed  her  ou  the  pallet,  and 
sprung  lightly  up  the  steep  stair. 

The  loft  was  just  a  f-hude  less  wretched  than  the  apart- 
ment below.  There  was  a  bed  on  the  iloor,  more  decently 
'oovered,  two  broken  chairs,  a  table  with  some  medicine- 
iyottles  and  cups,  and  a  white  curtain  on  the  one  poor  win- 
••iow.  By  this  ivindow  Zara  stood,  gazing  out  over  the 
bunlit  sea. 

On  the  bed  lay  a  woman,  over  whom  Pietro  bent  rever- 
ently the  moment  he  entered  the  room.  It  was  the  wreck 
ji  a  woman  who,  in  the  days  gone  by,  must  have  been 
gloriously  beautiful;  who  was  beautiful  still,  despite  the 
ravages  years,  and  sickness,  and  j)overty,  and  despair  liad 
wrought. 

The  eyes  that  blaznd  brilliant  and  black  were  the  eyes  of 
Kara — the  cyeso?  the  buby  Sunbeam  below — and  this  wom- 
an was  the  mother  of  one,  the  grandmother  of  the  other. 

Pietro  knelt  by  the  pallet  aiid  tenderly  kissed  one  trans- 
parent hand.  The  gn  at  black  eyes  turned  upon  him  wikl 
and  wide. 

"  Thou  hast  seen  him,  Pietro?"  in  a  breathless  sort  of 
Way.     ''  Zara  says  so." 

"  1  have  seen  him,  my  mother;  I  have  spoken  to  him. 
i spent  hours  with  Sir  Jasper  Kiiigshind  last  night." 

"  Thou  didst?"  Her  woids  came  i)antijigly,  while  pas- 
liiou  throbbed  in  every  line  of  her  face.  *'  And  there  is  c. 
Bon — an  heir?" 

"There  is.'* 


!•:  a 


m 


!>i 


m 


f 


M 


IHE    UAllONETS    BRIDE. 


She  snatched  hor  hand  away  and  throw  up  hor  withorod 
iirms  witli  a  vindictivo  shriek. 

"  And  1  lio  horo,  a  helpless  log,  and  ho  trium])hs!  I, 
2enitli,  tho  Queon  of  tho  Tribe — 1,  once  beautiful  and  pow- 
erful, hapi)y  and  free!  I  lie  hero,  a  withered  liiflk,  what 
he  has  made  mo!     And  a  son  and  heir  is  born  to  him!" 

As  if  the  thought  had  goaded  hor  to  a  f  ron/y  of  nuulno«s, 
sho  leajyjd  up  in  bed,  tossing  her  gaunt  arms  and  shrieking 
madly: 

'*  Take  mo  to  him — take  me  to  him!  Zara!  l^ietro! 
Take  mo  to  him,  if  yo  are  children  of  mine,  that  J  may 
hurl  my  burning  curse  upon  him  and  his  son  before  I  diol 
Take  mo  to  him,  I  say,  or  I  will  curse  yo!" 

Sho  fell  back  with  an  impotent  scream,  and  tho  man 
fiefcro  caught  her  in  his  arms.  Quivering  and  convulsed, 
x'oaming  at  the  mouth  and  black  in  tho  face,  sho  writhed 
\n  an  epileptic  fit. 

"  She  will  kill  herself  yet,'*  Piotro  said.  "  Hand  mo 
the  drops,  Zara." 

Zara  poured  something  out  of  a  bottle  into  a  cup,  and 
iPietro  held  it  to  the  sick  woman's  livid  lips. 

She  choked  and  swallowed,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  lay  still 
in  his  arms.     Very  tenderly  ho  laid  her  back  on  the  bed. 

"  She  will  sleep  now,  Zura,"  he  said.     "  Lot  us  go." 

They  descended  the  stairs.  Down  below,  the  man  laid 
"tiis  hands  on  his  wife's  shoulders  and  looked  solemnly  into 
llier  face. 

*'  Watch  her,  Zara,"  he  said,  "  for  sho  is  mad,  and  tho 
very  first  opportunity  sho  will  make  her  escape  and  seek 
out  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland;  and  that  is  the  very  last  thing 
1  want.     So  watoh  your  mother  well." 


<li 


V 

I  I! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  UNINVITED   GUEST. 

Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  stood  moodily  alone.  He  was 
in  the  library,  standing  by  the  window — that  very  window 
through  which,  one  stormy  night  scarcely  a  month  be- 
.fore,  he  had  admitted  Achmet  the  Astrologer.  He  stood 
ibhere  with  a  face  of  such  dark  gloom  that  all  the  bright- 
ness of  the  sunlit  April  day  could  not  cast  one  enlivening 
gleam. 


THE    HAROXET'S    BRIDE.  SI 

'  Ami  ycit  the  prosj)0(3t  on  wliluh  ho  givzod  miglit  hav« 
mudo  luminous  tho  fnco  of  tiny  ooninion  nuui,  although 
not  80  blcssoil  as  to  bo  its  ownor.  ISvvelling  nieailowH  all 
his  own;  volvoty  hiwns  sloping  away  to  sunlit  torracoa. 
where  gauily  poacouks  strutted;  long,  leafy  areadoa 
through  whioh  tho  golden  sunlight  sifted  in  amber  rain; 
waving  trees  and  dark  ])hintations.  Over  all  the  (doudlesa 
Ai)ril  sky,  and  far  beyond  the  si)arkling,  sunny  sea. 

JJut  not  all  the  glory  of  earth  and  sky  could  lighten  that 
settled  cloud  of  blaekcs-t  gloom  on  tho  wealthy  baronet's 
face.  IIo  stood  tiiere  soowling  darkly  upon  it  all,  so  lost 
in  his  own  son'ber  thoughts  that  ho  did  not  hear  the  library 
door  open,  nor  the  soft  rustlo  of  a  woman's  dress  as  slio 
lialted  on  tho  threshold. 

A  fair  and  stately  lady,  with  a  proud,  colorless  fac^ 
lighted  up  with  j^ale-bluo  eyes,  and  with  bands  of  pal« 
ilaxen  hair  pushed  away  under  a  dainty  lace  cap — a  'ady 
who  looked  scarce  thirty,  although  almost  ten  years  olaer 
unmistakably  handsome,  unmistakably  j^^'f^n^l'  -^t  W;v« 
Olivia,  Lady  Kingsland. 

"  Alone,  Sir  Jasper!"  a  musical  voice  said.  "  May  i 
come  in,  or  do  you  i)refer  solitude  and  your  own  thoughts?* ' 

The  sweet  voice — soft  and  low,  as  a  lady's  voice  should 
be — broke  tho  somber  spell  that  bound  him.  He  wheeled 
round,  his  dark,  moody  face  lighting  up  at  sight  of  her,  an 
all  tho  glorious  morning  sunshine  never  could  have  lighter* 
it.  That  one  radiant  look  would  have  told  you  how  liu 
loved  his  wife. 

'*  You,  Olivia?"  ho  cried,  advancing.  "  Surely  this  k 
a  surprise!  My  dearest,  is  it  quite  prudent  in  you  to  leavo 
your  room?" 

He  took  the  slender,  white-robed  figure  in  his  arms,  anrl 
kissed  her  as  tenderly  as  a  bridegroom  of  a  week  inighn 
have  done.  Lady  Kingsland  laughed  a  soft,  tinkling  lit- 
tle iaugh. 

**  A  month  is  quite  long  enough  to  be  a  prisoner,  .Tasper, 
even  although  a  prisoner  of  state.  And  on  my  boy's 
christening  fete — the  son  and  heir  1  have  desired  so  long 
— ah,  surely  a  weaker  mother  than  1  might  essay  to  quil 
her  room. " 

The  moody  darkness,  like  a  palpable  frown,  swept  over 
the  baronet's  face  again  at  her  words. 

*'  Is  he  dressed?'*  he  asked. 


26 


THE    baronet's    bride. 


ii 


t 


'*  He  is  dressed  and  asleep,  and  Lady  Helen  and  Mr« 
Oiirlyon,  his  godmother  and  godfiithor,  are  hovering  over 
the  crib  hke  twin  guardian  aDgels.  And  Mildred  sits  e9€ 
(jrandfi  tenuo  on  her  cricket,  in  a  speechless  trance  of  de- 
light, and  nurse  rustles  about  in  her  new  silk  gown  and 
white  laoe  cap  with  an  air  oi  importance  and  self-comi)la-- 
eency  almost  indescribable.  The  domestic  picture  only  wants 
pai)a  and  mamma  to  make  it  complete." 

felie  lauglied  m  slie  spoke,  a  little  sarcastically;  but  Sir 
Jasper's  attempt  even  to  smile  was  a  ghastly  failure. 

Lady  Kingsland  folded  both  her  h.inds  on  his  shoulder, 
and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  anxious,  bearching  eyes. 

"  What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

The  baronet  laughed  uneasily. 

"  What  is  what?" 

"  This  gloom,  this  depression,  this  dark,  mysterious 
moodiness.     Jasper,  wliat  has  changed  you  of  late?'* 

"  Mysterious  moodines:iI  changed  me  of  late!  Nonsense. 
Olivia!     1  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Again  he  strovi;  to  laugh,  and  again  it  was  a  wretched, 
failure. 

Lady  Kingsland's  light-blue  ej'es  never  left  his  face. 

"  I  think  you  do,  Jasi)er.  Since  the  night  of  our  boy'a 
birth  you  have  been  another  man.     What  is  it?" 

A  si)asm  crossed  the  baronet's  face;  his  li2)s  twitched 
convulsively;  liis  face  slowly  changed  to  a  gray,  ashen  pal 
lor. 

"  What  is  it?"'  tlie  lady  slowly  reiterated.  "  Surely  m,V 
husband,  after  all  tlieso  years,  has  no  secrets  from  me?" 

The  tender  reproach  of  her  tone,  of  her  eyes,  stung  the 
husband,  who  loved  her,  to  tlie  quick. 

"  For  God's  sake,  ()livia,  don't  a.:;k  me!"  ho  cried,  pas- 
sionately. ''It  would  bo  shecresit  nonsonsL*  in  your  eyes, 
I  know.  You  would  but  laugh  at  what  half  drives  me 
mail!" 

"Jasper!" 

"  Don't  look  at  me  with  that  reproachful  face,  Olivia! 
It  is  true.  You  would  look  upon  it  as  sheerest  folly,  I 
tell  you,  and  laugh  at  mo  for  a  credulous  fool." 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Kingslaiul,  quietly,  and  a  little  coldly, 
*'  You  know  me  better.     1  could  never  laugh  at  what  give* 
ftiy  husband  pain." 

"Pain!    1  have  liTed  in  torment  ever  since,  and  yet^ 


II!  Ill 


THE    ■RAEOXET'S    -RRTDE. 


2? 


»Tho  knows? — it  may  be  absurrlost  jngcrlery.  But  he  told 
me  ^le  past  so  truly — niv  very  thoughts!  And  no  one 
3on!(l  know  what  hiijincncd  in  ^pv'm  so  many  years  ago! 
Oh,  1  must  btslievi^  it — I  can  not  h^lp  it — and  that  belief 
<\'ill  drive  me  mad!'" 
•  The  outburst  '.vas  more  to  himself  than  to  her.  He  even 
forgot  ?he  was  there. 

Lady  KingHlaml  stood  looking  and  listening,  in  pale 
A'onder. 

*'  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  this/*  she  said,  slowly. 
''  Will  you  tell  me,  Sir  Ja-per,  or  am  I  to  understand 
you  h;ive  secrets  your  wife  may  not  share?'* 

Jlo  turned  to  her,  took  boih  her  hands,  and  gazed  into 
her  pale,  patrician  fai  o  ./ilh  a  look  of  pas.:iouate  pain. 

"My  own  dear  wii'o,"  ho  said— "my  best  beloved — 
tleaveii  knows,  if  I  have  one  secret  from  you,  I  keep  it 
v.hat  1  mjy  save  you  sorrow.  X't  one  cloud  should  ever 
<iarken  the  sunshine  of  your  sky,  if  I  had  my  way.  You 
«ire  right — 1  have  a.  secret — a  secret  of  horror,  and  dread, 
>»nd  dismay — a  te'-rible  secret  that  sears  my  brain  and  burns 
tny  heart!  Olivj.i,  my  darliiig,  its  very  horror  prevents 
.'uy  telling  it  to  you!" 

'*  Does  it  concern  our  boy?'*  she  asked,  quickly. 

"Yes!'*  with  a  groan.  "  IS'ow  you  can  understand  its 
rull  terror.  It  meiuices  the  S(m  I  love  more  than  life.  1 
^bought  to  keep  it  from  you;  I  tried  to  aj^pear  unchanged; 
but  it  seems  I  havo  failed  miserably. '* 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  me  what  this  secret  is?** 

"  I  dare  not!     1  would  not  have  you  suffer  as  1  sutTer. ** 

"  A  momnut  ago,*'  said  his  wife,  impatiently,  "  you  said 
*i  would  laugh  at  it  and  you.  Your  terra  •  a:e  inconsistent, 
fciir  Jasper." 

"  Spare  me,  Olivia! — I  Hcarco  know  what  J  say — and  do 
Brot  be  angrv.  '* 

She  drew  her  hands  coldiv  and  haucrhfilv  away  from  his 
grasp.  She  was  a  thoroughly  prouil  vromaii,  and  his  secrecy 
stung  her. 

"  I  am  not  angry,  Sir  Jasper.  Kee{)  your  secret,  if  you 
M'ill.  ^.  was  foolisdi  cnoucdi  to  fancv  1  had  ii;{ht  to  know 
'.A  any  I'anger  that  menaces  my  baby,  })ut  it  a]>pt  ars  1  was 
♦nistakcn.  In  half  an  hour  the  carriages  will  start  for  the 
»;hureh.     You  will  find  us  all  in  !he  nursery.'* 


98 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


,'F 


i; 


Slie  was  sweeping  proudly  away  in  silent  anger,  but  the 
T)aronet  strode  after  her  and  caught  her  arm. 

"  You  will  know  this!"  he  said,  huskily.  *'  Olivia, 
Olivia!  you  are  cruel  to  yourself  and  to  me,  but  you  shall 
hear — part,  at  least.  I  warn  you,  however,  you  will  be  no 
happier  for  knowing," 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  steadily. 

He  turned  from  her,  walked  to  the  window,  and  kept 
liis  back  to  her  while  he  spoke. 

"You  have  no  faith  in  fortune-tellers,  clairvoyants, 
astrologers,  and  the  like,  have  you,  Olivia?" 

"  Most  certainly  not!" 

"  Then  what  I  have  to  say  will  scarcely  trouble  you  as  it 
troubles  me — for  I  believe;  and  the  prediction  of  an  astrolo- 
ger has  ruined  my  peace  for  the  past  month. " 

Lady  Kingsland  lifted  her  blonde  eyebrows  and  laughed. 

"  Is  that  all?  The  mountain  in  labor  has  brought  forth 
H  mouse.  My  dear  Sir  Jasper,  how  can  you  be  so  simply 
uredulous?" 

"I  knew  you  would  laugh,"  said  Sir  Jasper,  moodily; 
••'  1  said  so.     But  laugh  if  you  can.     I  believe!" 

"Was  the  prediction  very  terrible,  then?"  asked  his 
wife,  with  a  smile.     "  Pray  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  It  was  terrible,"  her  husband  replied,  sternly.  "  The 
living  horror  it  has  cast  over  me  might  have  told  you  that. 
Jjisten,  Olivia!  On  that  night  of  our  baby  boy's  birth, 
wfter  I  left  you  and  came  here,  I  stood  by  this  window  and 
fciaw  a  spectral  face  gleaming  through  the  glass.  It  was 
the  face  of  a  man — a  belated  wayfarer — who  adjured  me, 
in  the  Saviour's  name,  to  let  him  in." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Kingsland,  composedly,  "you  let 
him  in,  I  suppose?" 

"  1  let  him  in — a  strange-looking  object,  Olivia,  like  no 
creature  1  ever  saw  before,  with  flowing  beard  and  hair 
silver-white — " 

"False,  no  doubt." 

"  He  wore  a  long,  disguising  cloak  and  a  skull-cap," 
went  on  Sir  Jasper,  heedless  of  the  interruption,  "  and  his 
tace  was  blanched  to  a  dull  dead  white,  lie  would  have 
looked  like  a  resuscitated  corpse,  only  for  a  pair  of  burn- 
ing black  eyes." 

Lady  Kingsland  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"  Quite  a  startling  appar'^j'on!    Melodramatic  in  the  ex- 


1 


I 


THE    BARONET'S    BKIDE. 


29 


ff 


,T 


And  this  singular  being- 
-  -> 

an    Eastern 


treme 

j,nt,  astrologer,  what?" 


what  was  he?    Clairvoy- 
Achmet 


*' Astrologer  —  an  Eastern  astrologer  —  Achmet  by 
name." 

'*  And  who,  probably,  never  was  further  than  London 
in  his  life-time.     A  well-got-up  charlatan,  no  doubt." 

"  Charlatan  he  may  have  been;  Enj^lishmau  he  was  not. 
His  face,  his  speech,  convinced  me  of  that.  And,  Olivia, 
charlatan  or  no,  he  told  me  my  past  life  as  truly  as  1 
knew  it  myself." 

Lady  Kingsland  listened  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  No  doubt  he  has  been  talking  to  the  good  people  of 
the  village  and  to  the  servants  in  the  house." 

*'  Neither  the  people  of  the  village  nor  the  servants  of 
the  house  know  aught  of  what  he  told  me.  lie  lifted  the 
veil  of  the  past,  and  showed  me  what  transj'ired  twenty 
years  ago." 

"  Twenty  years  ago?" 

"  Yes,  when  I  was  fresh  from  Cambridge,  and  making 
niy  first  tour.  Events  that  occurred  in  Spain — that  no 
i,ne  under  heaven  save  myself  can  know  of — he  told  me. 
He  revealed  to  me  my  ver}' thoughts  in  that  by-gone  time." 

Lady  Kingsland  knit  her  solemn  brows. 

"  That  was  strange!" 

"  Olivia,  it  was  astounding — incomprehensible!  1  should 
uever  have  credited  one  word  he  said  but  for  that.  He 
iiOld  me  the  i)ast  as  1  know  it  myself.  Events  that  trans- 
pired in  a  far  foreign  land  a  score  of  years  ago,  known,  as 
v  thought,  to  no  creature  under  heaven,  he  told  me  of  as 
vf  they  had  transpired  yesterday.  The  very  thoughts  that 
1  thought  in  that  by-gone  time  he  revealed  as  if  my  heart 
lay  open  before  him.  How,  then,  could  I  doubt?  If  he 
could  lift  the  veil  of  the  irrevocable  past,  why  not  be  able 
to  lift  (.tie  veil  of  the  mysterious  future?  He  took  the  hour 
of  our  child's  birth  and  ascended  to  the  battlements,  and 
there,  alone  with  the  stars  of  heaven,  he  cast  his  horoscope. 
Olivia,  men  in  all  ages  have  believed  in  this  supernatural 
power  of  astrology,  and  I  believe  as  firmly  as  1  believe  in 
Heaven." 

Lady  Kingsland  listened,  and  that  quiet  smile  of  half 
umusement,  half  contempt  never  h.ft  her  lips. 

"  And  the  horoscope  proved  a  horror^jcope,  no  doubt. 


}) 


50 


THE    BAKONET'S    KUIDB. 


whe  snid,  the  smilo  deepening.     "  You  p-xid  your  astrologer 

haudsoiiiely,  I  juvsuuie,  JSir  Jasper?" 

"  I  gave  liiiu  nothing.  lie  would  talvo  nothing — not 
even  a  cup  of  wutei*.  Of  his  own  free  will  ho  cast  the 
Horoscope,  and,  without  reward  of  any  kind,  went  his 
way  when  he  had  done." 

''  Wliat  did  you  say  the  name  was?" 

"  x\chniet  tlie  Astrologer.  •** 

"Melodramatic  sgainl  And  now,  Sir  Jasper,  what 
Hwful  fate  hetii-ics  ou.*  bjy?"  the  asked,  wiih  that  derisive 
bmile  on  her  face,  and  her  husband  turned  moodily  away. 

''  Content  you,  Olivia!  Ask  me  not!  You  do  not  he- 
lieve.  You  woidd  not  if  I  told  you,  and  it  is  better  so. 
What  the  astrologer  foretold  I  shall  tell  no  one." 

"■  The  carrliigo  waits,  my  ludy,"  a  servant  said,  enter- 
ing. '"  Lady  Helen  bade  me  remind  you,  my  lady,  it  is 
time  to  start  for  (hui(;h. " 

Lady  Kingsland  hastily  glanced  at  her  watch. 

"  Why,  so  it  is!  1  had  nearly  forgotten.  Come,  Sir 
t/asper,  and  forget  your  gloom  and  su2)er3titious  feai'S  on 
Uiis  happy  day." 

She  led  him  from  the  room.  Baby,  in  its  christening- 
x-obes,  slept  in  nurse's  arms,  and  Lady  Helen  and  Mr.  Oarl- 
you  stood  impatiently  v^'uiting. 

"We  will  certainly  be  late'!'*  Lady  Helen,  who  was 
f^odmanima,  said,  fussily.  "Had  we  not  better  depart  at 
t.nce.  Sir  Jasper?" 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  ladyship's  service.  Wo  will  not 
(lelay  an  instant  longer.     Proceed,  nurse." 

Nurse,  witli  her  precious  burden,  went  before.  Sir  Jas- 
^>er  drew  Ludy  Helen's  arm  within  his  own,  and  Mr.  Carl- 
yon  followed  with  li.tle  Mildred  Kingsland. 

Lady  Kingsland  watched  the  carriage  out  of  faight,  and 
then  went  slowly  and  thoughtfidly  back  to  her  room. 

"  How  extremely  foolish  and  weak  of  Sir  Jasper,"  she 
was  thinldng,  "  to  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  the  cant- 
iiig  nonsense  of  these  fortune-telling  impostors!  If  I  had 
been  in  his  place  1  would  have  had  him  horsewhipped  from 
my  gates  for  his  pains.  I  mast  Ihul  out  what  this  terrible 
prediction  was  and  laugh  it  out  of  my  silly  husband's 
liiiind." 

Meantime  the  carriage  rolled  down  the  long  avenue. 


I 


I 


ii 


tn 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDE. 


3t 


!i 


under  the  majestic  coppor-bcochcs,  thvonpjh  tlio  lofty  gutosi 
and  ulon;!;  the  bright  Kunlit  rruul  hauling  to  tho  village;. 

Ill  stole  and  surplice,  wilhiii  the  vill.'ige  ciuirth,  the  Rev- 
erend Cyi'iis  GretMi,  IiGctor  of  8r<;n(. haven,  stood  by  the 
baptismal  f<.'Ut,  waiting  to  biiptizu  the  heir  of  all  llie  King.'*- 
Iauu8. 

A  few  loiterers  stood  around  (he  entrance;  a  few  wore 
scattered  amo  ig  the  pews,  siaring  with  wide-open  eyes  as 
the  christening  procession  passeil  in. 

Stately  and  uplifted,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  strode  up  (he 
aisle,  with  Lady  I[elen  upon  his  arm.  Xo  trace  of  the 
trouble  within  showed  in  his  pale,  set  face  as  ho  stood 
little  aloof  and  heard  his  son  baptized  Everard  Jaspo' 
Carew  Kingsland. 

The  ceremony  was  over.  Xurse  took  the  infant  baronet 
again;  Lady  Helen  adjusted  her  mantle,  sh'ghLly  awry  fr(»rr 
holding  baby,  and  the  lieverund  Cyrus  Green  wa^;  bhimlly 
olfering  his  congratulations  to  the  greatest  man  in  th^^i 
parish,  when  a  sudden  commotion  at  the  door  starthd  all 
Some  one  striving  to  enter,  and  some  other  one  refusing, 
admission. 

"  Let  me  in,  1  tell  j'ou!"  cried  a  shrill,  piercing  voioe— ' 
the  voice  of  an  angry  woman.  "  Stand  aside,  woman!  1 
will  see  Sir  Ja«}).r  Ki'tgbluud!'^ 

With  the  last  ringing  words  the  intruder  burst  past  thfv 
pew-opener,  and  rushed  wildly  into  the  church.  A  weirrt 
and  unearthly  figure — like  one  of  Macbetli's  witches — with 
streaming  black  hair  floating  ovor  a  long,  red  cloalc,  anci 
two  black  eyes  of  llame.  All  recoiled  as  the  spectral  iJg- 
ure  rushed  up  like  a  mad  thing  and  confronted  Sir  Jasper 
Kingsland. 

"  At  last!"  she  shrilly  cried,  in  a  voice  that  pierctd  even 
to  the  gaping  listeners  without — "at  last,  Sir  Jasper 
Kingsland!     At  last  sve  meet  again!'* 

There  was  a  horrible  cry  as  the  baronet  started  back., 
putting  up  both  bands,  udth  a  look  of  unutterable  horror. 

"Good  God!  Zenith;*' 

"Yes,  Zenith!"  shrieked  (he  woman;  "  Zenitli,  the 
beautiful,  once!  Zenith,  the  hag,  the  crone,  the  mad  worn-' 
an,  now!  Look  at  me  well,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland — for  th'" 
ruin  is  your  own  handiwork!" 

He  stood  like  a  man  paralyzed — speechless,  stunued-' 
his  face  the  livid  hue  ol  death. 


,1 


3» 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


The  wretched  woman  stood  before  him  with  streaming 
hair,  blazing  eyes,  and  uplifted  arm,  a  very  incarnate  f m'y, 

"  Look  at  me  well!*'  she  fiercely  shrieked,  tossing  her 
iocks  of  eld  off  her  fiery  face.  "  Am  I  like  the  Zenith  of 
twenty  years  ago — young  and  beautiful,  and  bright  enough 
eren  for  the  fastidious  Englishman  to  love?  Look  at  ma 
now — ugly  and  old,  wrinkled  and  wretched,  deserted  and 
despised — and  tell  me  if  I  have  not  greater  reason  to  hato 
you  than  ever  woman  had  to  hate  man?*' 

She  tossed  her  arms  aloft  with  a  madwoman's  shriek — 
crying  out  her  words  in  a  long,  wild  scream. 

"I  hate  you— 1  hate  youT  Villain!  dastard!  perjured 
wretch!  I  hate  you,  and  I  curse  you,  here  in  the  church 
you  call  holy!  1  curse  you  with  a  ruined  woman's  curse^ 
and  hot  and  scathing  may  it  burn  on  your  head  and  on  thfl 
heads  of  your  children's  children!" 

The  last  horrible  scream,  the  last  horrible  words,  aroused 
the  listeners  from  their  petrified  trance.  The  Reverend 
Cyrus  Green  lifted  up  his  voice  in  a  ringing  tone  of  com- 
mand: 

"  This  woman  is  mad !  She  is  a  furious  lunatic!  Daw- 
son! Humphreys!  come  here  and  secure  her!" 

But  before  the  jvords  were  spoken,  the  madwoman's  eyew 
had  fallen  upon  the  nurse  and  baby. 

"The  child!  the  child!"  she  cried,  with  a  screech  of 
demoniac  delight;  "the  spawn  of  the  viper  is  within  my 
grasp!" 

One  plunge  forward  and  the  infant  heir  was  in  her  arms, 
lield  high  aloft.  One  second  later,  and  its  blood  and  brains 
would  have  bespattered  the  stone  floor,  but  Mr.  Carlyon 
sprung  forward  and  wrenched  it  from  her  grasp. 

The  two  men  summoned  by  the  clergyman  closed  upon 
her  and  held  her  fast.  It  took  all  their  united  strength 
for  a  few  moments;  she  struggled  with  a  madwoman's 
might;  her  frantic  shrieks  rang  to  the  roof.  Then,  sud- 
denly, all  ceased,  and,  foaming  and  livid,  she  fell  between 
them  in  an  epileptic  fit — a  dreadful  sight  to  see. 


CHAPTER  V. 
zenith's  malediction. 
A  DEAD  pause  of  blank  consternation;  the  faces  around 
a  sight  to  see;  horror  and  wonder  in  every  eountenanct*- 


(^ 


^ 


i 


} 


THE    IJAKONET'S    BRIDB.  31 

— most  of  all  in  the  couutenance  of  Sir  .Jasper  Kiugsland. 
Deal],  and  in  his  cottin,  the  baronet  would  never  look 
more  horribly  livid  than  he  did  now. 

The  clergyman  was  the  first  to  recover  presence  of  mind 
—the  first  to  speak. 

'*  The  woman  is  stark  mad,"  he  said.  "  We  must  see 
about  this.  8uch  violent  lunatics  must  not  be  allowed  to 
go  at  large.  Here,  Humphreys,  do  you  and  Dawson  lift 
hor  up  and  carry  her  to  my  house.  It  is  the  nearest,  and 
she  can  bo  properly  attended  to  there." 

"  You  know  her,  Sir  Jasjier,  do  you  not?"  asked  Ladj 
Helen,  with  (juick  womanly  intuition,  looking  with  keen, 
suspicious  '^vcs  into  the  baronet's  ghastly  face. 

"  Know  her?"  Sir  Jasper  replied,  in  a  stunned  sort  of 
way — "  know  Zenith?  Great  Heaven!  I  thought  she  was 
dead." 

The  Keverend  Cyrus  Green  and  Lftdy  Helen  exchanged 
glances.  Mr.  Carlyon  looked  in  sharp  surprise  at  the 
8])eaker. 

"  Then  she  is  not  mad,  after  all!  I  thought  she  mistook 
you  for  some  one  else.  If  you  know  her,  you  have  the  best 
right  to  deal  with  her.  Shall  these  men  take  her  to  Kings- 
land  Court?" 

"  iSlot  for  ten  thousand  worlds!"  Sir  Jasper  cried,  im- 
petuously. "  The  woman  is  nothing — less  than  nothing — 
to  me.  I  knew  her  once,  years  ago.  1  thought  her  dead 
and  buried;  hence  the  shock  her  sudden  entrance  gave 
me.  A  lunatic  asylum  is  the  j^roper  place  for  such  as  she. 
Let  Mr.  Green  send  her  there,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

He  turned  away  from  the  sight  upon  the  floor;  but 
though  he  strove  to  speak  carelessly,  his  face  was  bloodless 
as  the  face  of  a  corpse. 

The  Keverend  Cyrus  Green  looked  with  grave,  suspicious 
eyes  for  a  moment  at  the  leaden  face  of  the  speaker. 

"  There  is  wrong  and  mystery  about  this,"  he  thought 
— "  a  dark  mystery  of  guilt.  This  woman  is  mad,  but  her 
wrongs  have  driven  her  mad,  and  you.  Sir  Jasper  Kings- 
land,  are  her  wronger. " 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say.  Sir  Jasper,"  he  said,  alond; 
*'  that  is,  if  I  find  this  poor  creature  has  no  friends.  Are 
you  aware  whether  she  has  any?" 

"  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  of  her!"  the  baronet  cried, 
a 


it 


■i 


lii 


3^ 


THE    BARONET*S    BRIDE. 


with  fierce  impatieuco.     "  Wliut  should  I  know  of  such  a 
wretcii  as  that?" 

"  More  tliau  you  dare  tell,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland!'*  cried 
a  hli:h,  ringing  voice,  us  a  young  woiiuiii  ruthed  impetu- 
ously iiilo  the  churciiantl  up  the  aisle.  "  Coward  and  liar! 
False,  perjured  \vrtt(!h!  \ou  are  too  white-livered  a  hound 
oven  to  tell  the  truth!  "What  should  you  know  of  such  a 
wretch  as  that,  forsooth!  Double-dyed  traitor  and  dastard! 
Look  uie  in  the  face,  if  you  dare,  and  tell  me  you  dou'l 
know  her  I'' 

Everyone  shrunk  in  terror  and  dismtiy;  Sir  Jasper  stood 
as  a  man  might  stand  suddenly  struck  by  lightning.  And 
if  looks  were  lightning,  the  blazing  eyes  of  the  young 
woman  might  havo  blasted  him  v/here  he  stood.  A  tail 
and  handsome  young  woman,  with  black  eyes  of  fire, 
streaming,  raven  haii,  and  a  brown  gypsy  face. 

"  Who  are  you,  in  mercy's  name?''  cried  the  Reverend 
Cyrus  Green. 

The  great  black  eyes  turned  with  Hashing  quickness 
upon  him. 

"  I  am  the  daughter  of  this  wretch,  as  your  baronet 
yonder  is  2>leascd  to  call  my  mad  mother.  Yes,  3Ir.  Green, 
she  is  my  molher.  If  you  want  to  know  vrho  my  father  is, 
you  had  better  ask  Sir  Jasper  Kingslaud!" 

"  It  is  false!"  the  baronet  cried,  the  dead  ./hite  of  in- 
tense terror  changing  suddenly  to  rushing  crimson.  "  I 
know  nothing  of  you  or  your  father.  I  never  set  eyes  on 
you  befo'-e." 

"  "Wait,  wait,  wait!"  the  Reverend  Cyrus  Green  cried, 
imploringly.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  young  woman,  don't 
make  a  scene  before  all  these  gapiiig  listeners.  We  will 
have  your  mother  conveyed  into  the  vestry  until  she  re- 
covers; and  if  she  ever  recovers,  no  time  is  to  be  lost  in  at- 
tending to  her.  Sir  Jasper,  1  think  the  child  had  better 
be  sent  home  immediately.  My  lady  will  wonder  at  the 
delay.'' 

A  faint  wail  from  the  infant  lying  in  the  nurse's  arms 
seconded  the  suggcstioji.  That  feeble  crv  and  the  mention 
of  his  wife  acted  as  a  magic  spell  upon  the  baronet. 

"  Your  mad  intruders  have  startled  us  into  forgetting 
everything  else.  Proceed,  nurse.  Lady  Helen,  take  my 
arm.  Mr.  Carlyon,  see  to  Mildred.  The  child  looks- 
frightened  to  death,  and  little  wonder  I" 


J 


I 


THE    BARONETS    BRIDE. 


,) 


I  ft 


■t 


*:i 


"  LilLk",  iruleed!**  sigUed  Ludy  IIoloii.  '*  1  slmll  not 
recover  from  the  shock  for  i\  uioiith.  It  was  like  u  scene 
in  rt  nii'Ioilrania — like  a  chapttr  of  a  nonsation  novel.  And 
you  kno.v  that  dreadful  ortaLuic,  Sh*  .Jasper?" 

"  1  usod  to  know  her,''  the  baronet  .said,  with  emphasis, 
"  -JO  many  years  ago  that  1  had  almost  forgotten  she  ever 
exisud.  She  was  always  more  or  less  mad,  I  fancy,  and  it 
seems  lu-reditary.  Her  daiigliter — if  daughter  she  be — 
aeenui  as  distraught  as  her  mother." 

"  And  her  name,  Sir  Jasper?  You  called  her  by  some 
name,  1  think." 

"  Zenith,  I  suppose.  To  tell  the  truth.  Lady  Helen," 
irying  to  laugh  carelessly,  "  the  woman  is  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  gypsy  fortune-teller  crazed  by  a  villainous  life 
and  villainous  liquor.  But,  for  the  sake  of  the  days  gone 
by,  when  she  was  young  and  pretty  and  told  my  fortune, 
I  think  I  will  go  back  and  see  what  Mr.  Green  intends  do- 
ing with  her.  8iich  crazy  vagrants  should  not  be  allowed 
to  go  at  large.'" 

The  light  tone  was  a  ghastly  failure,  and  the  smile  but 
a  deaih's-head  grin,  lie  placed  Lady  Helen  in  the  car- 
riage— Mr.  Carlyon  aKsisted  the  nurse  and  little  Mildred. 
Then  Hir  Jasper  gave  the  order,  *'  Home,"  and  the 
stately  carriiioo  of  the  Kingslands,  with  its  emblazoned 
crest,  whirled  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  For  an  instant  he 
stood  looking  after  it.  The  smile  faded,  and  his  face  black- 
ened with  a  bitter,  vindictive  scowl. 

"  Curses  on  it!"  he  muttered  between  set  teeth.  "  After 
all  these  years,  are  those  dead  doings  to  be  flung  in  my 
face?  I  thought  her  deaci  and  gone;  and  lo!  in  the  hour 
-of  my  triumph  she  rises  as  if  from  the  grave  to  confound 
me.  Her  daughter,  too!  I  never  knew  she  had  a  child! 
Gooil  heavei-ss!  how  these  wild  oats  we  sow  in  youth  flour- 
ish and  multiply  with  their  bitter,  bad  fruit!  I  sowed 
mine  broadcast,  and  a  sweet  harvest  home  1  am  likely  to 
have!" 

He  turned  and  strode  into  the  vestry.  On  the  floor  the 
miserable  woman  lay,  her  eyes  closed,  her  jaw  fallen — the 
upturned  face  awfully  corpse-like  in  the  garish  sunshine. 
By  her  side,  supporting  her  head,  the  younger  woman  knelt, 
holding  a  glass  of  water  to  her  lips.  The  Keverend  Cyrus 
Grreen  stood  gravely  looking  on. 


i 


\ 


so 


THE    IlAllONET'S    BRIDE. 


i 


•' Js  slic  deiwl?"  Sir  Jasper  askod,  in  a  hard,  strident 
voice. 

It  wa^  1.0  tliu  clcr^'ynian  lio  Hpokc,  but  the  girl  looked 
florwly  up,  her  bJack  eyes  gilLteriug,  her  tones  like  a  scr- 

"  ^ot  (lead.  Sir  .Jasjtcr  Kiiip;sland!  No  thanks  to  you 
for  iti  Murderer — as  luuch  a  luurdciror  as  if  you  hud  cut 
her  tliroat — look  oii  her,  and  be  proud  of  the  ruin  you  have 
wrought!" 

"  Silence,  woman!"  Mr.  (Jreen  ordered,  imperiously. 
*'  We  will  have  none  of  your  matl  recrimiiuitious  here.  She 
is  not  dead,  Sir  Jasper,  but  she  is  dying,  I  thirds.  1'liis 
young  woman  wishes  to  remove  her — whither,  1  know  not 
—but  it  is  simply  impossible.  That  unfortunate  creature 
will  not  be  alive  when  to-morrow  dawns.'' 

'What  do  you  propose  doing  with  her?"  the  baronet 
asked,  steadily. 

"  We  will  convey  her  to  the  sexton's  house — it  is  very 
near.  I  have  sent  Dawson  for  a  stretcher;  he  and  Humph- 
reys will  carry  her.  This  young  woman  declines  to  give 
her  name,  or  tell  who  she  is,  or  where  she  lives." 

"  Where  I  live  is  no  altairof  yours,  if  I  can  not  take  my 
mother  there,"  the  young  woman  answered,  sullenly. 
"  Who  1  am,  you  know.  1  told  you  1  am  this  woman's 
daughter. " 

"  And  a  gypsy,  I  take  it?"  said  Mr.  Green. 

*'  You  guess  well,  sir,  but  only  half  the  truth.  Half 
gypsy  I  am,  and  half  gentlewoman.  A  mongrel,  I  sup- 
pose, that  makes;  and  yet  it  is  well  to  have  good  blood  in 
one's  veins,  even  on  the  father's  side." 

There  was  a  sneering  euiphasis  in  her  words,  and  the 
glittering,  snaky  black  eyes  gleamed  like  daggers  on  the 
baronet's  face. 

But  that  proud  face  was  set  and  rigid  as  stone  now.  He 
returixcd  her  look  with  a  haughty  stare. 

"  It  is  a  pity  the  whipping-post  has  been  abolished,"  he 
said,  harshly.  "  Your  impertinence  makes  you  a  fit  subject 
for  it,  mistress!  Take  care  wo  don't  commit  you  to  prison 
as  a  public  vagrant,  and  teach  that  tongue  of  yours  a  lit- 
tb  civility  when  addressing  your  betters. " 

"  My  betters!"  the  girl  hissed,  in  a  fierce,  sibilant  whis- 
per. "  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  a  daughter  should  look  upon 
a  father  in  that  light.     As  to  the  whipping-post  and  prison. 


I 


THE    BARONETS    BUTDF. 


37 


He 

Mie 


try  It  at  your  peril!    Try  it,  if  you  dare,  Sir  Jnsper  Kings- 

She  rose  up  nn<l  eonfroutod  liiin  uutii  he  quailoil. 

Jiefore  lie  eould  speak  the  door  ojionod,  and  J)a\vsoii  en- 
tered witli  the  stretcher. 

*'  Lay  her  upon  it  and  remove  her  at  once,'*  the  rector 
said,  very  ghul  of  tiio  interruption.  "  Here,  llumphreya, 
tiiis  side.  Gently,  my  men — gently.  ]]o  very  careful  on 
the  way.'* 

The  two  men  placed  the  seemingly  lifeless  form  of  Zenith 
on  the  stretcher  and  bore  her  carefully  away. 

The  daughter  Zara  followed,  her  eyes  never  quitting 
that  rigid  face. 

"  She  will  not  live  until  to-morrow  morning,''  the  rec- 
tor said;  "  and  it  is  better  so,  i)Oor  soul!  She  is  evidently 
hopelessly  insane." 

*•  And  the  daughter  appears  but  little  better.  By  the 
Hvay,  Mr.  Green,  Lady  Kiogsland  desires  me  to  fetch  you 
back  to  dinner.'* 

The  rector  bowed. 

*'  Her  ladyship  is  very  good.  Has  your  carriage  gone? 
X  will  order  out  the  pony-phaeton,  if  you  like." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  two  gentlemen  were  bowling  along 
the  pleasant  country  road  leading  to  the  Court.  It  was  a 
very  silent  drive,  for  the  baronet  sat  moodily  staring  at 
vacancy,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  brow,  his  mouth  set  iu 
hard,  wordless  pain. 

"  They  will  tell  Olivia,"  he  was  thinking,  gloomily. 
**  What  will  she  say  to  all  this?" 

But  his  fears  seemed  groundless.  Lady  Kingsland 
treated  the  matter  with  cool  indiU'erence.  To  be  sure,  she 
had  not  heard  quite  all.  A  madwoman  had  burst  into  the 
church,  had  terrified  Lady  Helen  pretty  nearly  to  death 
with  her  crazy  language,  and  had  tried  to  tear  away  the 
baby.  That  was  the  discreet  story  my  lady  heard,  and 
•vhich  she  was  disposed  to  treat  with  calm  surprise.  Baby 
was  safe,  and  it  had  ended  in  nothing;  the  madwoman 
was  being  properly  cared  for.  Lady  Kingsland  quietly  dis- 
missed the  little  incident  altogether  before  the  end  of  din- 
ner. 

The  hours  of  the  evening  wore  on — very  long  hours  to 
the  lord  of  Kingsland  Court,  seated  at  the  head  of  his 


l 


ni 


1 

1  ■• 

j 

1 
1 

■ 

1    ■ 

88 


tuv.  i?a]{ok"et  r  tirtde. 


table,  (lispt'ii.'ilii;.^  liis  lioHjiitiilitioM  aiul  trying'  to  listen  to 
till)  loii;,'  sl.oi'ii'S  of  Mr.  ('iirlyoii  suul  tho  rector. 

ft  u';is  \vor.^o  in  the  drawin/^-rooni,  with  the  li^'lils  mid 
thu  mu-i'',  Jind  liia  atnlely  wii'i'  ut  the  iiiiv?io,  and  Laily 
Heli'ii  at  iiid  side,  prattling'  with  little  Nfildred  over  a  piio 
ol' on^'iavlnijs.  All  Ihe  time,  in  a  iialC-distracJted  sort  of 
way,  his  thoiighls  were  wandering  to  (ho  si-xfon'«  <!ottngo 
and  t,lie  w^mian  dving  therein — tho  vvdnum  he  had  thought 
ileail  years  ago — dying  there  in  desolation  and  misery — and 
liero  tho  Ijoih'B  sjumed  strung  on  roses.  And  onee  he  iiad 
loved  Zonilh. 

It  wd^  all  over  at  last.  Tho  guests  wore  gone,  tho  baby 
baronrt  sle[)t  in  his  crib,  and  Lady  Kingsland  had  gone  to 
iier  (;hand)er.  Uufc  >Sir  Jaspor  lingered  still — waiuhiring 
up  and  down  the  lotig  drawing-room  like  a  restless  ghost. 

A  su'eet-voieeil  clock  oji  the  mantel  chimed  twelve.  Mre 
its  last  cliinKi  had  sounded  a  sleepy  valet  stood  in  tho  door- 
way. 

"  A  me^'senger  for  you,  Sir rJas])er-  ''^iitby  tho Tievcrond 
Mr.  (Jre(ui.     Here — come  in." 

'riius  invoked,  Mr.  Dawson  entered,  pulling  his  forelook. 

"■  Pairion,  he  sent  me,  vau:     Sho  be  a-doying,  she  be." 

Ho  knew  instantly  who  the  man  meant<.  Ho  had  ex- 
pecti  d  and  waited  for  this. 

''  And  she  wi^dies  to  see  me?'* 

"  81u!  calls  for  you  all  the  time,  zur.  Sho  be  a-doying 
uneonimon  hard.     Parson  bid  me  come  and  toll  *eo. " 

"  Very  well,  my  man,"  tho  baronet  said.  '"  That  will 
do.  r  vv'ill  go  at  once.  Thoniiis,  order  my  horse,  and 
I'eteh  my  liding-uloak  and  gloves." 

Th'j  valet  stared  in  astonishment,  but  went  to  obey.  Ifc 
was  snmeilung  altogether  without  precedent,  this  qiioor 
proceeding  on  the  part  of  his  master,  and,  taken  in  con- 
neoLiari  vvith  that  other  odd  event  in  church,  looked  re- 
markably su-spii-ious. 

The  idght  was  dark  and  starlesa,  and  the  wind  blew  iraw 
and  bleak  as  tho  baronet  tlashed  down  the  avenue  and  out 
into  tho  high-road.  ITe  ahuiK-t  wondered  at  him  self  for 
complying  with  the  dying  woman'^  desire,  but.  same  in- 
ward impulse  quite  beyond  his  control  seemed  driving  him 
on. 

Ho  rode  rapidly,  and  a  quarliOr  of  an  hour  brought  him 
to  the  sexton's  oottago.  A  feeble  light  glimmored  from  ^.he 


THK     IJARONKTS     IIIUDr. 


39 


vviml')".v  out  into  tlie  [)itc'li  bliiukiuvs.s  of  tlio  ni^'lit.     A  mo- 
moiiL  hitur  and  ho  hLooiI  witliin,  in  tlii!  prosuiiot.«  of  tlio  djr- 


III 


/^' 


'riitt  liovcrond  Cynia  (freon  t^iit  by  tho  tublo,  a  JVihIo  in 
iii.i  hiiiiil.  Kuei^liiig  by  the  bistlsidc,  hur  face  i^fJiuKLly  whito, 
hur  biiniiiiij;  bbuik  ovivs  dry  aivd  liurlcss,  wiis  tbo  yoimj.j 
vvutiKUi.  And  liko  u  d'Jiid  wujiiuii  ulvo;iiiy,  BtroLciied  on  tiio 
boil,  luy  Zijuitii. 

lUit  sill)  was  not  dcail.  At  tho  sound  of  tlio  opcMiing 
iloor,  ;it  tbo  souuil  of  his  out niiiu'c,  sho  opened  lu'i  oyorf, 
dulliii:^'  fast  in  doaih,  uiul  lixud  tiicin  with  u  hungry  ghiro 
on  ISn*  .)asj)ur. 

*'  I  Ivnovv  you  would  como,"  sho  said,  in  a  liusky  wliis- 
pur.  "  You  lUire  not  Htay  away  I  Tlio  spirit  of  tho  dying 
Zmiitli  dr'>vo  you  iitn-i;  in  i-'j)iLo  of  yourself,  ('onio  ntaror 
— ni-aror!  Wir  .his[)or  Ivingsiand,  don't  hover  aloof.  Onco 
you  could  novor  bo  ni*ar  enough.  Ah,  I  waa  young  and 
fair  then!  I'm  old  and  ugly  now.  (Jomo  iiuarcr,  for  I 
can  not  spuak  aloud,  and  listen.  Do  you  know  why  1  have 
sont  for  you?" 

Ill)  had  apjiroached  tho  bedside.  Sho  caught  hi;^  lumd 
and  htdd  it  iu  a  viae-like  oluteh,  her  lieree  eyes  burning 
npou  his  faoe. 

•'  No,"  ho  said,  recoiling. 

"  To  givo  you  my  dying  malediction — to  curse  you  with 
my  latest  breath!  I  hate  you,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,  falsest 
of  all  mankind!  and  if  tlie  dead  can  return  and  torment 
the  living,  then  do  you  beware  of  mel'' 

She  spoke  in  panting  gasps,  the  death-rattle  sounding  in 
her  skinny  throat.  Shocked  and  scandalized,  the  rector 
interposed: 

*'  My  good  woman,  don't — for  pity's  sake,  don't  say  such 
horribit)  things!" 

But  she  nevia*  heeded  him.  The  glazing  eyes  glared 
with  tigerish  hate  upon  the  man  beside  her,  even  through 
the  tilms  of  death. 

"  1  hate  you!"  she  said,  with  a  last  effort.  "  1  die  hat- 
ing yoi.,  and  I  curse  you  with  a  dying  woman's  cnr.;e!  May 
your  life  be  a  life  of  torment  and  misery  and  remorse! 
May  your  son's  life  bo  blighted  and  ruined!  May  he  be- 
come au  outcast  among  men!  May  sin  and  shame  follow 
him  forever,  and  all  of  hi-,  i-bhorred  rate!" 

Her  voice  died  away,     lihe  glared  helplessly  up  from  the 


II 


40 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


pillow,  unable  to  speak.  A  deep,  stern,  terrible  *'  Amen!" 
came  from  her  daughter's  lips;  then,  with  a  spasm,  she 
half  leaped  from  the  bed,  and  fell  back  with  a  gurgling 
cry — dead ! 


n  C 


he  is  gone!"  said  the  rector,  with  a  shudder. 
'*  Heaven  have  mercy  on  her  sinful  soul!'* 

The  baronet  staggered  back  from  the  bed,  his  face  ut-- 
terly  livid. 

"  I  never  saw  a  more  horrible  aight!"  continued  the 
Reverend  Cyrus.  *'  1  never  heard  such  horrible  words! 
No  wonder  it  has  unmanned  you.  Sir  Jasper.  Pray  sit 
down  and  drink  this." 

He  held  out  a  glass  of  water.  Sir  Jasper  seized  and 
drank  it,  his  brain  reeling,  for  a  moment  or  two  quite  un- 
able to  stand. 

With  stoical  calm,  Zara  had  arisen  and  closed  the  dead 
woman's  eyes,  folded  the  hands,  straightened  the  stiffening 
limbs,  and  composed  the  humble  covering.  She  had  no 
tears,  she  uttered  no  cry — her  face  was  stern  as  stone. 

*'  Better  stay  in  this  ghastly  place  no  longer,  Sir  Jasper," 
the  rector  suggested.  "  You  look  completely  overcome. 
I  will  see  that  everything  is  properly  done.  We  will  bury 
her  to-morrow." 

As  a  man  walks  in  a  dreadful  dream.  Sir  Jasper  arose, 
quitted  the  room,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  away. 

One  dark,  menacing  glance  Zara  shot  after  him ;  then 
she  sat  stonily  down  by  her  dead.  All  that  night,  all  next 
day,  Zara  kept  her  post,  neither  eating,  nor  drinking,  nor 
sleeping.  Dry  and  tearless,  the  burning  blac!:  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  the  dead  face,  and  never  left  it. 

When  they  put  the  dead  woman  in  the  rude  board  coffin, 
she  offered  no  resistance.  Calmly  she  watched  them  screw 
the  lid  down — calmly  she  saw  them  raise  it  on  their  shoul- 
ders and  bear  it  away.  Without  a  word  or  tear  she  arose, 
folded  her  cloak  about  her,  and  followed  them  to  the 
church -yard. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  interment  was  over 
— a  bleak  and  gusty  afternoon.  A  sky  of  lead  hung  low 
over  a  black  earth,  and  the  chill  blast  shuddered  ghostly 
through  the  trees. 

One  by  one  the  stragglers  departed,  and  Zara  was  left 
alone  by  the  new-made  grave.  No,  not  quite  alone,  for 
through  the  bleak  twilight  fluttered  the  tall,  dark  figure  of 


I  > 


THE    PARONET's    r.RTDE. 


41 


T;  man  toward  lier.  Slie  lifted  her  gloomy  eyes  and  recog- 
nized liim. 

"You  come,  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,"  she  said,  slowly, 
*•  to  see  the  last  of  your  work.  You  come  to  gloat  over 
your  dead  victlr?i,  and  exult  that  she  is  out  of  your  way. 
But  I  tell  you  to  beware!  Zenith  in  her  grave  will  be  a 
thousand  times  more  terrible  to  you  than  Zenith  ever  was 
alive!" 

The  baronet  looked  at  her  with  a  darkly  troubled  face. 

"  Why  do  you  hate  me  so?''  he  said.  "  "Whatever  wrong 
1  did  her,  I  never  wronged  you.'' 

' '  You  have  done  me  deadly  wrong !  My  mother's  wrongs 
are  mine,  and  here,  by  her  grave,  I  vow  vengeance  on  you 
and  yours!  Her  dying  legacy  to  me  was  her  hatred  of  you, 
and  I  will  pay  the  old  debt  with  double  interest,  my  noble, 
haughty,  titled  father!" 

She  turned  with  the  last  words  and  sped  away  like  an 
evil  spirit,  vanishing  in  the  gloom  among  the  graves. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TWO   DYING   BEQUESTS. 

The  midsummer  night  was  sultry  and  still.  The  dark- 
ness was  like  the  darkness  of  Egypt,  lighted  every  now  and 
then  by  a  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  from  what  quarter  of 
the  heavens  no  man  knew.  The  inky  sky  was  invisible — 
no  breath  of  air  stirred  the  terrible  calm.  The  midsum- 
mer night  was  full  of  dark  and  deadly  menace. 

Hours  ago  a  fierce  and  wrathful  sunset  had  burned  itself 
out  on  a  brassy  sky.  The  sun,  a  h;rid  ball  of  fire,  had 
sunk  in  billows  of  blood-red  cloud,  and  pitch  blackness 
had  fallen  upon  earth  and  sky  and  sea.  Everything  above 
and  below  breathea  of  speedy  and  awful  tempest,  but  the 
midnight  was  drawing  near,  and  the  storm  had  not  yet 
burst. 

And  on  this  black  June  night  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland  lay 
on  his  stately  bed,  dying. 

The  lofty  chamber  was  but  dimly  lighted.  It  was  a 
grand,  vast  room,  paneled  in  black  oak,  hung  with  somber 
draperies,  and  carpeted  in  rich  dark  Brussels. 

Three  wax  candles  made  white  spots  of  light  in  the  sol' 
emn  gloom:  a  wood-lire  burned,  or  rather  smoldered,  in 
the  wide  hearth,  for  the  vast  rooiws  were  chilly  even  iu 


i  1 


i  3 


43 


THE    BAP.O'N'ET'S    BUTDE. 


midsnmmftr;  but  neitlier  fire-light  nor  candle-light,  could 
iJlumino  the  ghostly  depths  of  the  chamber.  Shadows 
L'roH(!hcd  like  evil  things  in  the  diinky  corners,  and  round 
the  bed,  only  darker  shadows  among  the  rest,  knelt  the 
dying  man's  family — wife  and  daughter  and  son.  And 
hovering  aloof,  with  pale,  anxious  faces,  stood  the  rector, 
the  lieverend  Cyrus  Green,  and  Dr.  Parker  Godroy,  of  the 
village. 

TJiu  last  hope  was  over,  the  last  prayer  had  been  said, 
the  last  faint  breaths  fluttered  between  the  dying  lips. 
"With  the  tide  going  out  on  the  shore  below,  the  baronet's 
life  was  ebbing. 

"  Olivia!" 

Lady  Kingsland,  kLeeling  in  tearless  grief  by  her  hus- 
band's side,  bent  over  him  to  catch  the  faint  whisper. 

"  My  dearest,  I  am  here.     What  is  it?" 

"  Where  is  Everard?" 

Everard  Kingsland,  a  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  handsome 
boy,  lifted  his  head  from  the  o])posite  side.  It  was  a  liand- 
aome,  high-bred  face — the  ancestral  face  of  all  the  Kings- 
lands — that  of  this  twelve-year-old  boy. 

"  Here,  papa!" 

The  weak  head  turned  slowly:  the  eyes,  dulling  in  death, 
fixed  themselves  on  that  fail-,  youthful  face  in  a  gaze  of 
deathless  love. 

"  My  boy!  my  boy!  whom  I  have  loved  so  well — whc»m 
I  have  shielded  so  tenderly.  My  precious,  oidy  son,  1  must 
leave  you  at  last!" 

The  hoy  stilled  a  sob  as  he  bent  and  kissed  the  ice-cold 
(ace.  Young  as  lie  u'as,  he  had  the  gravity  and  self-re- 
prc3>ion  of  manhood  already. 

"  I  have  loved  you  better  than  my  own  life,"  the  faint, 
whispering  voice  went  on.  "  J  would  have  died  to  save 
you  an  hour  of  pain.  1  have  kept  the  one  secret  of  my 
life  well — a  secret  that  has  blighteil  it  berore  its  time — but 
1  can  not  face  the  dread  unknown  and  bear  my  secret  with 
me.  On  my  death-bed  1  must  tdl  all,  and  n)y  darling  boy 
must  bear  the  blow." 

Everard  Kiigsland  listened  to  his  father's  huskily  mur- 
mured words  in  boyish  wonderment.  What  secret  was  he 
talking  of?  He  glanced  across  at  his  mother,  and  to  his 
increased  surprise  saw  her  palo  cheeks  suddenly  Hushed 
and  her  calm  eyes  kindling. 


THE    BAR(  net's    rRTDK 


**  No  living  soul  Ims  orer  heard  from  me  what  1  must 
tell  you  to-night,  my  Everard — not  even  your  mother. 
Do  not  leave  me,  Olivia.  You,  ioo,  must  knou'  all,  tluxt 
you  may  guard  your  aon — 'jiat  you  may  pity  und  forgive 
me.  Perhaps  I  have  err?  J  in  ke.^ping  any  seen  t  I'rom 
3'ou,  but  the  truth  was  too  horrib.e  to  tell.  'Ihore  havn 
been  times  when  the  i. bought  of  it  noarlv  drove  me  mad. 
How,  then,  could  I  tell  the  v.ife  I  loved — the  son  I  idolize! 
— this  cruel  and  ehamefid  thing .^'' 

The  glazing  eyes  rolled  in  piteous  appeal  from  one  to 
the  other.  The  youthful  Everard  looked  eimply  bcwih 
dered — Lady  Kingsland  excited,  expeotant,  flush:''.!. 

She  gently  wiped  the  clammy  brow  and  held  a  reviving 
cordial  to  the  livid  lips. 

"  My  dearest,  do  not  agitate  yourself,"  she  raid.  "  V/n 
will  listen  to  all  you  have  to  say,  and  love  you  nojie  thn 
less,  let  it  be  what  it  will.*' 

"  My  own  dear  vdfe!  half  the  Eccrct  you  know  alrcad}. 
You  remember  the  astrologer — the  prediction?'* 

'*  Surelv.  You  have  never  been  the  ^amc  man  since 
that  fatal  night.    It  is  of  the  prediciioti  you  wcuM  speak:"" 

"  It  is.  i  must  tell  my  son.  I  must  warn  him  ot  the 
unutterable  horror  to  come.  Oh,  my  boy  I  my  boy:  what 
will  become  of  you  when  you  h'arn  your  hon-ible  Joonir" 

"  Papa,**  the  lad  said,  softly,  but  growing  very  white, 
"  I  don*t  understand — wliat  horror?  »^  hat  di  >m?  Tell 
me,  and  see  how  I  will  bear  it.  1  am  u  Kingsland,  you 
know,  and  the  son  of  a  daring  race.** 

"That  is  my  brave  boy  I  Send  them  out  of  the  room, 
Olivia — priest,  doctor,  Mildred,  and  all — tUen  come  close 
to  mo,  close,  close,  for  my  voice  is  failing — and  listen.'* 

Lady  Kingsland  arose — fair  and  statei;*'  still  as  twelve 
years  before,  and  eminently  self-sustained  in  this  trying 
hour.  In  half  a  minute  she  had  lurncd  out  rector,  i)hy- 
sician,  and  daughter,  and  kn«jlt  again  by  that  bed  of  deati). 
The  lightning  glittered  athwart  the  gloom;  the  warniug 
moan  of  the  coming  storm,  heard  in  the  mighty  voice  of 
the  sea,  sounded  terribly  distinct,  in  that  eilent  room,  and, 
grimly  waiting,  Death  stood  in  the'r  midst. 

"The  first  part  of  my  story,  Olivia,**  began  the  dying 
man,  "  belongs  to  you.  Years  before  I  knew  you,  when  1 
was  a  young,  hot-headed,  ra.-Jily  impulsive  boy,  traveling 
Ml  S^jain,  1  fell  in  with  a  gang  of  wandering  gypsies.     I 


44 


THE    BAROKET'S    bride. 


it     > 


r 


11: 


! 


Imd  been  robbed  and  wounded  by  mountain  briganda; 
tliese  gypsies  found  me,  took  me  to  their  tents,  cared  for 
me,  cured  mo.  But  long  after  I  was  well  I  lingered  with 
thein,  for  the  fairest  thing  the  sun  shone  on  was  my  black- 
eyed  nurse.  Zenith.  We  were  both  so  young  and  so  fiery- 
blooded,  so —  Ah!  what  need  to  go  over  the  old,  old 
grounds?  1'liere  was  one  hour  of  mad,  brief  bliss,  parting 
and  forgetf ulness.  I  forgot.  Life  was  a  long,  idle  sum- 
mer holiday  to  m^e.  But  she  never  forgot — never  forgave! 
You  remember  the  woman,  Olivia,  who  burst  into  the 
church  on  the  day  of  our  boy^s  christening — the  woman 
who  died  in  the  sexton's  house?  That  woman  was  Zenith 
— old  and  withered,  and  maddened  by  her  wrongs — that 
woman  who  died  cursing  me  and  mine.  A  girl,  dark  and 
fierce,  and  terrible  as  herself,  stood  by  her  to  the  last, 
lingered  at  her  grave  to  vow  deathless  revenge — her  daugh- 
ter and  mine!" 

The  faint  voice  ceased  an  instant.  Lady  Kingsland  had 
drawn  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  and  her  face 
could  not  be  seen.  The  fluttering  spirit  rallied,  and  re- 
sumed : 

"  1  have  reason  to  know  that  daughter  was  married.  I 
have  reason  to  know  she  had  a  child — whether  boy  or  girl 
I  can  not  tell.  To  that  child  the  inheritance  of  hatred 
and  revenge  will  fall;  that  child,  some  inward  prescience 
tells  me,  will  wreak  deep  and  awful  vengeance  for  the 
past.  Beware  of  the  grandchild  of  Zenith,  the  gypsy — be- 
ware, Olivia,  for  yourself  and  your  son!" 

There  was  a  pause;  then — 

"  Is  this  allr '  Olivia  said,  in  a  constrained,  hard  voice. 

"  All  I  have  to  say  to  you — the  rest  is  for  Everard.  My 
son,  on  the  night  of  your  birth  an  Eastern  astrologer  came 
to  this  house  and  cast  your  horoscope,  lie  gave  that 
horoscope  to  me  at  day-dawn  and  departed,  and  from  that 
hour  to  this  I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  of  him.  Before 
reading  your  future  in  the  stars  he  looked  into  my  palm 
and  told  me  the  past — told  me  the  story  of  Zenith  and  her 
wrongs — told  n)o  what  no  one  under  heaven  but  myself 
knew.  My  boy,  the  revelation  of  that  night  has  blighted 
my  life — broken  my  heart!  The  unutterable  horror  of 
your  f  utiu-e  has  brought  my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  Oh,  my  son!  what  will  become  of  you  when  I  am 
gone?" 


1 


'c< 


THE    BAKONET  S    BRIDE. 


45 


M^he  boy  looked  in  blank  consternation  at  the  ghastly, 
oo.uvulsod  face.  The  dying  voice  was  ahnost  inaudible 
now.  The  breath  came  in  panting  gasps.  The  clock  was 
near  the  stroke  of  midnight.  The  tide  was  all  but  at  its 
lowest  ebb. 

"  What  was  it,  papa?"  the  lad  asked.  "  What  has  the 
future  in  store  for  me?" 

A  convulsive  spasm  distorted  the  livid  face;  tho  eye- 
balls rolled,  the  death-rattle  sounded.  With  a  smothered 
cry  of  terror  Lady  Kingsland  lifted  the  agonized  head  i-n 
her  arms. 

"  Quick,  Jasper — the  horoscope!    Where?" 

"  My  safe — study — secret  spring — at  back!  Oh,  God, 
have  mercy — " 

The  clock  struck  sharply — twelve.  A  vivid  blaze  of 
lambent  lightning  lighted  the  room;  the  awful  death-rat- 
tle sounded  once  more. 

"  Beware  of  Zenith's  grandchild!" 

He  spoke  the  words  aloud,  clear  and  distinct,  and  never 
spoke  again.  With  that  warning  on  his  lips,  his  head  fell 
heavily  back;  he  turned  his  glazed  eyes  on  the  son  he 
loved,  and  so — died. 

*^j  ^#  ^^  ^A  ^A  ^A 

»^  »j%  9jm  ^p  ^^  ^^ 

Many  miles  away  from  Kingsland  Court  that  same 
sultry,  oppressive  midsummer  night  a  little  third-rate 
theater  on  the  Surrey  side  of  London  was  crowded  to  over- 
llowing.  There  was  a  grand  spectacular  drama,  full  of 
transformation  scenes,  fairies,  demons,  spirits  of  air,  fire, 
and  water;  a  brazen  orchestra  blowing  forth,  and  steam, 
and  orange-peel,  and  suffocation  generally. 

Foremost  among  all  the  fairies  and  nymphs,  noted  for 
the  shortness  of  her  filmy  skirts,  the  supple  beauty  of  her 
shapely  limbs,  her  incomparable  dancing,  and  her  dark, 
bright  beauty,  flashed  La  Sylphine  before  the  foot-lights. 

The  best  dmii^cuse  in  the  kingdom,  and  the  prettiest, 
and  invested  with  a  magic  halo  of  romance.  La  Sylphine 
shone  like  a  meteor  among  lesser  stars,  and  brought  down 
thunders  of  applause  every  time  she  appeared. 

The  little  feet  twinkled  and  Hashed;  the  long,  dark 
waves  of  hair  floated  in  a  shining  banner  behind  her  to  the 
tiny  waist;  the  pale,  upraised  face — the  eyes  ablaze  like 
bhick  stars!  Oh,  surely  La  Sylphine  was  the  loveliest 
thing,  that  hot  June  night,  the  gas-light  shone  on! 


^ 


4G 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


The  fuiry  spectacle  was  over — the  green  drop-cui'taia 
I'ell.  La  feylpliuio  Ijad  smiled  and  dipi)ed  an'l  kissed 
hands  to  thundering  bravos  fur  the  last  time  that  night, 
and  now,,  behind  the  scenes,  was  rapidly  exchanging  tins 
&pangle3  and  gossamer  df  fairydoin  for  the  shabby  and 
faded  merino  shawl  and  dingy  straw  hat  ol;  every-day  lif'3. 

"You  danced  better  than  over  to-night.  Miss  Monti,'' 
a  tiill  demon  in  tail  and  horns  said,  sauntering  up  to  her. 
"Them  there jiretty  feet  of;  your'u  will  make  your  fort- 
une yet,  and  beat  Fanny  j'^llsler!" 

"  .Nut  to  mention  her  pretty  face,"  said  a  brother  liend, 
removing  his  horrible  mask.  "  Her  fortune's  made 
already,  if  she's  a  mind  to  take  it.  There's  a  gay  young 
city  swell  a-waiting  at  the  wings  to  see  you  home.  Miss 
Monti." 

La  Hylphine  laughed. 

"  Ls  it  Mayiuird,  the  banker's  son?"  she  asked. 

The  second  demon  nodded. 

"  Then  1  must  escape  by  the  side  entrance.  When  he 
gets  tired  waiting,  Mr.  Smithers,  give  him  La  Sylphine's 
compliments,  and  let  him  go." 

She  laughed  again,  soft  and  silvery,  glided  past  the 
demons  down  a  dark  and  winding  staircase,  and  out  into 
the  noisy,  lighted  street. 

The  girl  paused  an  instant  under  a  street-lamp — she- 
was  only  a  girl — fifteen  or  sixteen  at  most,  though  very 
tall,  with  a  Siright,  fearless,  precocious  look — then  draw- 
ing her  shawl  closely  round  her  slender  figure,  she  tUtted 
rapidly  awa}^ 

The  innumerable  city  clocks  tolled  heavily  —  eleven. 
The  night  was  pitch-dark;  the  sheet-lightning  blazed  across 
the  blackness,  and  now  and  then  a  big  drop  felL  Still  the 
girl  sped  on,  swiftly,  surely,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  left,  until  she  reached  her  destination. 

It  was  the  poorest  and  vilest  quarter  of  the  great  city — 
among  resking  smells,  and  horrible  sounds,  and  disgusting 
sights.  The  house  she  entered  v/as  tottering  to  decay — a 
dreawlul  den  by  day  and  by  night,  thronged  with  the  very 
scum  and  olTal  of  the  London  streets.  Up  and  up  a  long 
stair-way  she  fiew,  psuu^ed  at  a  door  on  the  third  landing, 
opened  it,  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  miserable  room — all  one  could  have  expected 
from  the  street  and  the  house.     There  was  a  black  grate. 


till) 


1 


THE    BAEONET'S    BPtTDE. 


47 


one  or  two  broken  clmirs,  a  btUterctl  table,  and  a  wretched 
bed  in  the  corner.  On  the  b'^d  a  \v(»man — the  ;.^h:i.'tly 
skeleton  of  a  woman — hiy  dyiiitj.  A  ikutering  tuliow  cau- 
dle, iluruing  wildly,  lighted  the  miserable  scene. 

The  opening  of  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  La  Sylphine 
aroused  the  woman  from  the  stn])or  into  which  5;he  had 
fallen — the  stupor  that  precedes  death.  She  opened  her 
spectral  eyes  and  looked  ca^•erly  around. 

"My  Suibeam!  is  it  th-ni?" 

"It  is  1,  mother — at  la.^t.  I  could  come  no  sooner. 
The  ballet  was  very  long  to-night.*' 

The  weird  eyes  of  the  sick  woman  lighted  up  w'ltii  a 
sudden  flame. 

"  And  my  Sunbeam  was  bravocd,  and  encored,  and 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  admired  beyond  all,  was  ^he 
not?'' 

"  Yes,  mother;  but  never  mind  that.  How  are  you  to- 
night?" 

"  Dying,  my  own." 

The  dansi'um  fell  on  her  knees  with  a  shrill,  sharj)  cry. 

"  No,  mother — no,  no!  Not  dying!  Very  ill,  very 
weak,  very  low,  but  not  dying.     Oh,  not  dying!"' 

"  l)ying,  my  daughter!"  the  sick  woman  said,  solemn- 
ly. "I  count  my  life  by  minutes  now;  I  heard  the  city 
cloclvs  strike  eleven;  1  counted  the  strokes,  for,  my  Sun- 
beam, it  is  the  last  hour  poor  Zara,  thy  mother,  will  ever 
hear  on  earth." 

Tlie  ballot-dancer  covered  her  face,  with  a  low,  despair- 
ing cry.  The  dying  mother,  wil.h  a  painful  eiiort,  lifted 
her  own  skeleton  hand  and  removed  those  of  the  girl. 

"  Weep  not,  but  listen,  carisi^imii.     1  have  much  to  say 

to  thee  before  I  go;  1  feared  to  die  before  you  came;  and 

icven  in  my  grave  I  could  not  rest  'vith  the  wonls  1  must 

/say  unsaid.     I  have  a  legacy  to  leave  thee,  my  daughter." 

"  A  legacy?" 

The  girl  oj)ened  her  great  black  eyes  in  wide  suri»rise. 

"  Even  so.  Not  of  lands,  or  h^,u^^es,  cr  gold,  or  honors, 
but  something  a  thousand-fold  greater — an  inheritance  of 
hatred  and  revenge!" 

'*My  mother!" 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  daughter,  and  my  dying  malediction 
be  upon  thee  if  thou  fultlUest  not  the  trust.  Thou  hast 
heard  the  name  of  Kingslaud?"' 


^f> 


: 


>h 


\  n 


m 


46 


THE    baronet's    BRTD-E. 


La  Sylpliine's    ico  darkoncd  vindictively. 

"  Ay,  iiiy  jjiotlior — often;  from  my  father  ere  he  died — 
from  thee,  since.  Was  it  not  his  hist  couimund  to  me — 
this  liutred  of  their  evil  race?  Did  I  not  ])romise  him  on 
his  death-bod,  four  years  ago?  J)oe3  my  mother  thiuii  I 
forget?" 

**  That  is  my  brave  daughter.  You  know  the  cruel 
story  of  treachery  and  wrong  done  thy  grandmother. 
Zenith — you  know  the  prediction  your  father  made  to  my 
father.  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland,  on  the  niglit  of  his  son's 
birth.  Bo  it  thine,  my  brave  daughter,  to  see  that  pre- 
diction fulfilled. '' 

A  slight  shiver  shook  her  slender  frame;  her  dark  face 
blanched. 

"  You  ask  a  terrible  thing,  my  mother,'*  she  said,  slow- 
ly; "  but  1  can  refuse  you  nothing,  and  1  abhor  them  all. 
I  promise — the  prediction  shall  be  fulfilled!" 

"  My  own!  my  own!  That  son  is  a  boy  of  twelve  now 
— be  it  yours  to  find  him,  and  work  the  retribution  of  the 
gods.  Your  grandmother,  your  father,  your  mother,  look 
to  you  from  their  graves  for  vengeance.  Woe  to  you  if 
you  fail!" 

"  I  shall  not  fail!"  the  girl  said,  solemnly.  *'  I  can  die, 
but  I  can  not  break  a  promise.  Vengeance  shall  fall, 
fierce  and  terrible,  upon  the  heir  ol  Kingsland,  and  mine 
shall  be  the  hand  to  inflict  it.  1  swear  it  by  your  death- 
bed, mother,  and  I  will  keep  my  oath!" 

The  mother  pressed  her  hand ;  she  was  too  far  gone  for 
words.  The  film  of  death  was  in  her  eyes,  its  gray  shadow 
on  her  face.  8he  strove  to  speak — only  a  husky  rattle 
came;  there  was  a  quick,  dreadful  convwlsion  from  head 
to  foot,  then  an  awful  calm. 

Within  the  same  hour,  with  miles  between  them,  Sir 
Jasper  Kingsland  and  Zara,  his  outcast  daughter,  died. 


* 


* 


* 


* 


* 


The  dawn  of  another  day  crept  silently  over  the  Devon 
liill-tops  as  Lady  Kingsland  arose  from  her  husband's 
death-bed — a  sullen  day  of  wet  and  gloom;  a  leaden  sky, 
a  drenched  earth;  no  sound  to  be  heard  save  the  ceaseless 
drip,  drip  of  the  melancholy  rain. 

White,  and  stark,  and  rigid,  the  late  lord  of  Kingsland 
Court  lay  in  the  awful  majlesty  of  death. 


THE    BAUONfJT'S    BlJlDE. 


49 


I 

y 

\ 

t 


Tho  doctor,  the  rector,  the  nurso,  sat,  pulo  and  sonilicr 
watchers,  in  the  death-room.  More  than  an  hour  before 
the  youthful  baronet  had  been  sent  to  his  room,  worn  out 
with  liis  night's  watching. 

It  was  the  IJeverend  Cyrus  Green  who  urged  my  lady 
now  to  follow  him. 

"  You  look  utterly  exhausted,  my  dear  Lady  Kings- 
land,''  he  said.  "  Pray  retire  and  endeavor  to  sleep.  You 
are  not  able  to  endure  such  fatigue. '' 

Tho  lady  rose  wearily,  very,  very  pale,  but  tearLss. 

*'  1  am  worn  out,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  I  will  lie  down, 
but  1  feel  as  though  I  should  never  sleep  again." 

She  quitted  the  room,  but  not  to  seek  her  own.  Outside 
the  death-chamber  she  paused  an  instant,  and  her  haggai'd 
face  lighted  suddenly  u^i,  as  a  vase  might  with  a  light 
within. 

"  Now  is  my  time,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "  A 
few  hours  more  and  it  may  be  too  late.  His  safe,  he  said 
— the  secret  spring!" 

She  flitted  away,  pallid  and  guilty  looking,  into  Sir  Jas- 
jier's  study.  It  was  deserted,  of  course,  and  there  in  tho 
corner  stood  the  grim  iron  safe.  Lady  Kiugsland  locked 
the  door,  drew  a  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and  aj)- 
proached  it. 

"It  is  well  I  took  the  keys  from  under  the  pillow  be- 
fore those  curious  gapers  came  in.  Now  for  the  secrets  of 
tlie  dead!  No  fortune-telling  jugglery  shall  blight  my 
darling  boy's  life  while  I  can  help  it.  He  is  as  super- 
stitious as  his  father.  ' 

With  considerable  difficulty  she  opened  the  safe,  pulled 
forth  drawer  after  drawer,  until  the  grim  iron  back  was 
exposed. 

"  The  secret  spring  is  here,"  she  muttered.  "  Surely, 
surely,  I  can  find  it. " 

P^or  many  minutes  she  searched  in  vain;  then  her  glance 
fell  on  a  tiny  steel  knob  inserted  in  a  corner.  She  pressed 
this  with  all  her  might,  confident  of  success. 

Kor  was  she  deceived;  the  knob  moved,  the  iron  slid 
slowly  back,  disclosing  a  tiny  hidden  drawer  in  what  ap- 
peared the  solid  frame. 

Lady  Kingsland  barely  repressed  a  cry  as  she  saw  the 
paper,  and  by  its  side  something  wrapped  in  silver  tissue. 
Greedily  she  snatched  Jwth  out,  pressed  back  the  knob^ 


50 


Tnii   hakonkt's  bride. 


Jockcfl  Ihe  aafu,  stole  out  of  the  study  and  uj)  to  her  own 

lOnni. 

ranting  with  hor  haste,  my  Judy  sunk  into  a  seat,  with 
her  trcusurca  eagerly  clutched.  A  moment  recovered  her; 
then  .she  took  up  the  little  2):ircel  wrapped  in  the  silver 
})Up(.'r. 

"  lie  said  notliing  of  this,"  she  thought.  "  What  oan 
itlK'?'-' 

She  tore  oil'  the  wrapping.  As  it  fell  to  the  tloor,  a 
long  tross  of  .silky  black  liair  fell  with  it,  and  whe  hold  in 
hur  liaiid  a  miniatiue  painted  on  ivory.  A  girliih  I'ace  of. 
exquisite  buauty,  unsky  as  the  face  of  an  Indian  ciucen, 
looked  up  at  her,  fresh  and  bright  as  thirty  years  bofore. 
No  need  to  looii;  at  the  words  on  tho  reverse — "  My  ])eer- 
less  Zenith  *' — to  know  who  it  was;  the  wiJ!e*s  jealousy  told 
her  at  tlie  lirst  glance. 

"  And  all  thiv-e  years  lie  has  kept  this/'  she  said,  be- 
tween liLM-  set  tooth,  '*  while  he  protended  ho  loved  only 
inel  '  My  })Lcrless  Zenith!"  Yes,  she  is  bcuutiiful  as  the 
fablod  houris  of  the  Mu-sulman's  2)aradise.  Well,  I  will 
keep  it  in  my  turn.     Who  knows  what  end  it  may  serve 

yet?'^ 

Who,  indeed?  8ha  picked  \\]}  tho  tress  of  blue-black 
hair,  and  enveloped  all  in  the  silver  paper  once  more. 
Then  sho  lifted  the  folded  document,  and  looked,  darkly  at 
the  superscription: 

"  Horoscope  of  the  Ileir  of  Kingslaud. '* 

"  Wliich  the  heir  of  Kingsland  shall  never  see,"  she 
said,  grimly  unfolding  it.     "  Now  for  this  mighty  secret.'^ 

{She  just  glanced  at;  the  mystic  symbols,  the  cabalistic 
signs  aud  figures,  and  turned  to  the  other  side.  There, 
beautifully  written,  in  long,  clear  letters,  she  saw  her  sou's 
fate. 

The  morning  wore  on — noon  came;  the  house  was  as 
still  as  a  tomb.  Jiosine,  my  lady's  maid,  with  a  cuji  of  tea, 
venturad  to  tap  at  her  ladyship's  door.  There  was  no 
respon:^e. 

"  She  sleeps,"  thought  Rosine,  and  turned  the  handle. 

But  at  the  thre.shoid  she  2)aused  in  wild  alarm.  No, 
my  lady  did  not  ileep.  She  sat  in  her  chair,  uj^right  and 
ghastly  as  a  galvanized  eorpae,  a  written  paper  closely 


' 


THK    iJAICUNETW    liltlDE. 


dl 


cliitt'hod  in  her  hand,  uud  a  Juuk  oX  white  horroi  frozou  oa 
her  face. 


}} 


CHAl'TEU   VJI. 

AFTER     T  i:  K     \  E  A  R  S . 

"  I  HAVE  said  it,  uiul  1  mean  it;  tlioy  ought  to  know  me 
well  eiiouicli  by  Uii.s  linju,  (iotlfioe.  I'd  trans])ort  ovory 
it»;ui  of  them,  Uiu  poaching';  si-oiiiidrcls,  if  1  could!  'J'oll 
that  villain  Dick  Oafkly  that  tho  iiryt  timo  1  catch  him  at 
his  old  triclvH  ho  shall  follow  tho  brother  ho  makea  such  a 
howling'  tdxnit,  anil  share  hU  futo. '' 

Sir  .riverard  Kin;^-.sl;UKl  was  tiio  speaker.  Ito  stood  with 
ono  hand,  whito  and  shapely  as  a  lady's,  resting  on  the 
glossy  neck  of  hir^  bay  lioroe,  his  fair,  handsome  face. 
flushed  with  aiiyer,  turned  upon  his  gamekeeper. 

There  was  an  impei-ious  ring  in  his  voice,  an  imporioua 
fksh  in  his  steel-blue  eyes,  that  showed  how  accustomed 
he  was  to  command — how  unaccustomed  to  any  power  save 
his  own. 

Potcr  (jodsoe,  the  sturdy  gamekeeper,  standing  before 
his  young  nuister,  hat  in  hand,  looked  up  deprecatingly. 

"  He  takes  it  very  hard.  Sir  Everard,  that  you  sent  his 
brother  to  Worrel  Jail.  His  missis  was  sick,  and  two  of 
the  children  had  tho  measles,  and  Will  Darkly  he'd  boeo 
out  o'  work,  and  they  was  poor  as  poor.  So  ho  turns  tc 
and  snares  the  rabbits,  and—-*' 

"  Godsoe,  are  you  trying  to  excuse  this  couvic>€d 
poacher?  Is  that  what  you  stop^^ed  me  here  to  say**'' 
asked  the  baronet,  angrily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Everard;  I  only  wanted  to 
warn  you — to  put  you  on  your  gunrd — " 

He  stopped  confusedly,  as  the  fair  Saxon  face  of  iiis 
master  grew  darker  and  darker. 

"  To  warn  me — to  put  me  on  my  guard?  What  do  you 
mean,  fellow?  Has  that  villainous  poacher  dared  to 
threaten  me?'' 

'  Not  in  my  hearing,  sir;  but  others  say  so.  And  he's 
a  dark,  vindictive  brute;  and  ho  swore  a  solemn  oath,  they 
say,  when  his  brother  went  to  Worrel  Jail,  to  be  revenged 
upon  you.  And  so.  Sir  Everard,  begging  your  pardon  for 
the  freedom,  I  thought  as  how  you  was  likely  to  be  out 


J 


■';  i 


52 


TriK   dakonkt's  lUiH)!:. 


late  to-ni^ht,  coming  liomi)  from  my  lorcrs,  and  as  Brith, 
low  Wood  is  lonosomo  and  diirk — " 

"  That  will  do,  fJodtsoe!"  Uio  young  baronot  interrupt, 
cd,  haughtily.  "  You  moan  wolj,  J  daro  «uy,  and  1  ovor- 
look  your  ])resumption  this  tinio;  but  nover  prolTur  advico 
to  me  again.  As  for  J)arkly,  he  had  bettor  keej)  out  of 
my  way.  I'll  horsewliip  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life 
the  first  time  1  see  him,  and  send  him  to  make  acquaint- 
ance with  the  liorse-pond  afterward." 

lie  vaulted  lightly  into  the  saddle  as  ho  s})oke.  Tall 
and  slender,  and  somewhat  ell'eminato  in  his  liandsomo 
youth,  he  yet  looked  a  gallant  cavalier  enough  aatrklo  hi» 
bay  thorough-bred. 

The  brawny  gamekeeper  stood  gazing  after  him  as  h» 
ambled  down  the  leafy  avenue,  a  grim  smile  on  his  suu- 
burned  face. 

'*  His  father's  son,"  ho  said;  "  the  proudest  gentleman 
in  Devonshire,  and  the  most  headstrong.  You'll  horse- 
whip Dick  Darkly,  Sir  Everard!  Why,  he  could  take  you 
with  one  hand  by  the  waist-band,  antl  lay  you  low  in  the 
kennel  any  day  he  liked!  And  he'll  do  it,  too!"  muttered 
Godsoe,  shaking  his  head  and  turning  slowly  away.  "  You 
won't  be  warned,  and  you  won't  take  precaution,  and  you 
won't  condescend  to  be  afeard,  and  you'll  como  to  grid 
afore  you  know  it." 

The  gamekeeper  disappeared  in  the  plantation,  and  tho 
youthful  baronet  rode  out  through  liis  own  lofty  entrance 
gates  into  the  pleasant  high-road  beyond. 

The  misty  autumn  twilight  lay  like  a  veil  of  silver  blue 
over  the  peaceful  English  landscape;  a  cool  breeze  swej)t 
up  from  the  sea  over  the  golden  downs  and  distant  hills, 
and  as  Sir  Everard  rode  along  through  the  village,  the 
cloud  left  his  face,  and  a  tender,  dreamy  look  came  in  its 
place. 

"  She  will  be  present,  of  course,"  he  thought.  "  I  won- 
der if  I  shall  find  her  as  I  left  her  last?  She  is  not  the 
kind  that  play  fast  and  loose,  my  stately,  uplifted  Lady 
Louise.  How  queenly  she  looked  at  the  reception  last 
night  in  those  velvet  robes  and  the  Carteret  diamonds! — 
'queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls.'  She  is  my 
elder  by  three  round  years  at  least,  but  she  is  stately  as  a 
princess,  and  at  twenty-five  preserves  tho  ri2)e  bloom  of 
eighteen.    She  is  all  that  is  gracious  when  we  meet,  and 


THT:    nAKONETS   imiDE. 


08 


my  niotlior  Ims  sot  lior  liom-t  uj)on  tlio  mutch.  I  liQve  half 
u  mind  to  ])i'(HK)ao  thiH  very  night.  " 

Thoro  wuH  no  rupturo  in  tho  yomifj  man's  mind  ut  the 
thoiiglit.  Ilia  blootl  Howod  coolly  und  his  pulses  boat 
calmly  whilo  ho  turned  tho  tender  subject  over  in  hid 
mind;  anil  he  was  only  tvvo-and-twenty. 

She  was  an  earl's  daughter,  this  stately  Lady  Louise, 
but  so  very  impovei-ished  an  earl  that  the  young  Devon- 
shire baronet,  with  liis  ancient  name  and  his  long  rent-roll, 
was  a  most  desirably  brilliant  match. 

She  was  down  on  a  visit  to  her  brother.  Lord  Carteret» 
and  had  made  :i  dead  sot  at  Sir  Kvcrard  Kingsland  from 
the  hour  she  had  met  him  first.  He  was  on  his  way  to 
Lord  Carteret's  now.  There  was  a  dinner-party,  and  he 
was  an  honored  guest;  and  Lady  Louise  was  brilliant,  iu 
the  family  diamonds  and  old  point  lace,  once  more. 

She  was  in  the  drawing-room  when  he  entered — hei* 
stately  head  regally  uplifted  in  the  midst  of  a  group  ot 
less  magnificent  demoiselles — a  statuesque  blonde,  with 
abundant  ringlets  of  flaxen  lightn^iss,  eyes  of  turquoiw 
blue,  and  a  determined  mouth  and  chin. 

Sir  Everard  paid  his  respects  to  his  host  and  hostess,  an<3 
sought  her  side  at  once. 

"  Almost  late,"  she  said,  with  a  brilliant,  welcoming 
smile,  giving  him  her  dainty  little  hand;  "  and  Ceorgo 
Grosvenor  has  been  looking  this  way,  and  pulling  his  mus- 
tache and  blushing  redder  than  the  carnations  in  his  but- 
ton-hole. Ho  wants  to  take  me  in  to  dinner,  poor  fellow, 
and  he  hasn't  the  courage  to  do  it." 

*'  With  your  kind  ])ermission.  Lady  Louise,  I  will  savo 
him  the  trouble,"  answered  Sir  Everard  Kingsland. 
"  (jrosvonor  is  not  singular  in  his  wish,  but  1  never  gave 
him  credit  for  so  much  good  taste  before." 

Lady  Louise  laughed  good-naturedly.  Those  pearly 
teeth  lighted  up  her  face  wonderfully,  and  she  was  very 
fond  of  showing  them. 

"  Mr.  Grosvenor  is  more  at  home  in  the  hunting-field 
than  the  drawing-room,  1  fancy.  Apropos,  Sir  Everard, 
1  ride  to  the  meet  to-morrow.  Of  course  you  will  bo  pres- 
ent on  your  '  bonny  bay  '  to  display  your  prowess?" 

"  Of  couse — a  fox-hunt  is  to  me  a  foretaste  of  celestial 
bliss.  With  a  first-rate  horse,  a  crack  pack  of  hounds,  a 
*  good  sceut,'  and  a  fine  morning,  a  man  is  tempted  to 


54 


THE    HAEOKTIT'F!    T^RTDE. 


wish  life  could  last  forcvor.  And  you  arc  only  going  to 
ride  to  the  meet,  then.  Lad}'  Louise?" 

"  Yes;  1  never  followed  the  hounds.  I  don't  know  iho 
eountry,  and  1  eau't  rido  to  i^oints.  Besides,  I  am  not 
rciilly  Amazonian  enough  to  fancy  a  scamper  across  the 
eountry,  flying"  fences  and  risking  my  precious  neck.  It's 
mucli  nicer  ambling  qtucitly  homo  when  the  hounds  start, 
and  indulging  in  a  novel  and  a  post-meridian  cup  of  toa." 

"  And  much  more  w,  nnmly.  1  shouldn't  have  liked  to 
say  so  before,  but  1  must  own  that,  to  me,  a  hiuy  never 
loukh  less  attractive  than  in  a  h.mting-fjeld,  among  yelping 
hounds,,  and  shouts,  and  cheers,  and  cords  and  tops,  and 
scarlet  coats.  ** 

"  That  comes  of  being  a  poet  and  an  artist;  and  Sir 
Everard  Kin^-'Sland  is  accused  of  being  both.  You  want 
to  fancy  us  ail  anj^els,  and  vou  can  not  rccouciio  an  angelic 
being  with  a  tide-saddle  and  a  hard  gallop.  Now,  I  don't 
own  to  benig  anything  in  ilio  Di  Vernon  lino  myself,  and 
I  don't  wish  to  be;  but  1  do  admire  a  spirited  lady  rider, 
and  I  do  thirdv  a  ])rctty  gj''l  never  looks  half  so  pnitty  ak 
when  well  mounted.  You  ehould  have  seen  Ilarrie  Hinis- 
den,  as  I  naw  her  the  other  day,  and  you  would  surely 
recant  your  heresy  about  ladies  and  horse-llesh. " 

"  Is  llarrie  JIuiisden  a  lady?" 

"  Certainly.  Don't  you  know  her?  Ahl  I  forgot  you 
have  been  abroad  all  Ihese  years,  and  that  J.  know  more  of 
our  neij.dd)ors  than  you  do,  who  ave  '  to  the  maiior  born. ' 
She  is  Ca])tain  Jlunsden's  only  daughter — JIunsden,  of 
Ilunsdcn  Hall,  over  yonder,  one  of  your  oldest  Devon 
families.  You'll  jind  them  duly  chronicled  in  .Hurke  and 
Debrett.  But  Capiain  llun^dcn  has  been  abroad  so  much 
that  I  am'not  surprised  at  your  want  of  information.  Miss 
Hunsden  is  scarcely  eighteen,  but  she  has  been  over  the 
world  from  Dan  to  Pjcersheba — from  Quebec  to  Oibialtar 
— fi'om  JIalil'ax  to  Calcutta.  Two  years  of  her  life  she 
passed  at  a  New  Y'ork  boarding-school,  of  which  city,  it 
appears,  her  mother  was  a  native." 

"Indeed!"  Sir  Everatd  said,  just  lifting  his  ej'cbrows. 
"  And  Miss  Iluusden  rides  well?" 

"  Like  Di  Vernon's  self.  And  I  repeat,  I  don't  affect 
the  Di  Verno?!  style." 

"  Is  your  Miss  llunsden  pretty?  and  sliall  wo  soc  hor  at 
the  meet  to-moriow?" 


; 

i 


u 


fi 


I  * 


i 


THE    l'.AU02ir;T's    BRIDE. 


65 


I  -; 


"  Yes,  to  both  questions;  and  more  tlum  tit  tlie  niee^.,  I 
fanoy.  She  luul  her  ihurough-bivJ,  Whirlwind,  will  ktu'l 
you  all.  llor  .soariet  habit  and  '  red  roan  steed  '  are  as 
well  known  in  the  country  as  the  duke's  liounds,  and  her 
bright  eyes  and  dashing  style  have  taken  by  etorni  the  sus- 
cu])uble  hearts  of  half  the  fox-hunting  squires  oi  Devon- 
shire," 

She  langhed  a  little  maliciously,  this  vivacious  Lady 
Louise.  Truth  to  tell,  not  being  quite  sure  that  her  game 
v/as  safely  wired,  and  dreading  this  Amazonian  Miss  liun,5- 
den  as  a  prospective  rival,  she  was  iictliing  loath  to  preju- 
dice the  fastidious  young  baronet  beforehand,  even  vvhilfc 
seeming  to  praise  her. 

"  1  am  surprised  that  you  have  not  heard  of  her,''  she 
said,  in  her  soft  accents.  "  Sir  Harcourt  Helford  and  Mr. 
Cholmondeley  actually  fought  a  duel  about  her,  and  it 
ended  in  her  telling  tliim  to  their  faces  they  were  a  pair  of 
idiots,  and  flatly  refusing  both.  *  The  Hunsden  '  is  the 
toast  of  the  couuLry.'" 

Sir  Everard  shuddered. 

"  From  all  such  the  gods  deliver  us!  You  honor  Miss 
Hunsden  with  j'our  deepest  interest,  I  think,  Lady 
Louise?'' 

"  Yes,  she  is  such  an  jddity.  Her  wandering  lifc;  I 
presume,  accounts  for  it;  but  she  is  altogether  unlike  any 
girl  I  ever  knew.  1  am  certain,"  wiih  a  little  maliciinis 
glance,  "  she  will  be  your  st\le.  Sir  Everard." 

"  And  as  1  don't  in  the  least  know  what  my  btyle  is," 
responded  Sir  Everard,  with  intinilo  culm,  "  pirhaps  you 
may  be  right." 

Lady  Louise  bli,  her  lip — it  was  a  rebulT,  she  fancietl,  f<tr 
her  detraction.  And  then  LaJy  CarU-rct  gave  that  my.-- 
terious  signal,  and  the  ladies  rose  and  swrpt  i  lu  tiing  away 
in  billows  of  silk  to  the  drawing-ro  im,  ;uiii  the  gcnlU men 
hui;  the  talk  to  thcm;;;elves  "  across  the  walnuts  and  the 
wine. " 

'IV)  one  gentleman  present  the  inti-rim  before  lejninii'g 
the  ladies  was  an  nnnii'igat'.ally  dull  one,  even  thougli  I  In; 
talk  ran  on  two  of  Jiis  favorite  topics — horse-lleidi  inid 
hunting.  lie  was  in  love,  he  tiiought  complacently,  aiid 
Lady  Louioe's  eyes  had  sparkled  to-day,  and  her  sj))il< .-; 
had  Hashed  their  bi'^vihioring  brightness  upon  him  more 
radiantly  than  ever  beXure. 


i 


56 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


"How  pleased    my   mother    will    be  I'' 
thought,  holding  his  wine  up  to  the  light. 


Sir 


Everawl 
I  will  asic 


Lady  Louise  this  very  evening.  An  earPs  daughter — even 
though  a  bauivrupt — is  a  fitting  mate  for  a  Kiugsland.  '* 

Lady  Louise  sat  at  the  piano — a  piano  whose  notes  were 
as  the  music  of  the  spheres — the  soft  light  falling  full  on 
her  pale,  statuesque  face,  and  making  an  aureole  around 
her  fair,  shapely  Iioad.  Her  white  dress  of  heavy,  luster- 
less  silk  fell  in  classical  folds  around  her  stately  figure,  and 
the  hands  floating  over  the  keys  flashed  with  diamonds  that 
dead-and-gone  earls'  daughters  had  worn  a  hundred  years 
before. 

Sir  Everard  Kingsland  crossed  over  and  stood  besido 
her,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Carteret  exchanged  significant 
glances,  and  smiled. 

It  was  a  very  desirable  thing ,  indeed ;  they  had  broughu 
Louise  down  for  no  other  earthly  reason;  and  Louise  was 
playing  her  cards,  and  playing  them  vvell. 

If  Sir  Everard  had  one  taste  stronger  than  another  it 
was  his  taste  for  music,  and  Lady  Louise  held  him  spell- 
bound now.  She  played,  and  her  fingers  seemed  inspired; 
she  sung,  and  few  non-professionals  sung  like  that. 

The  chain  of  brittle  glass  that  bound  the  captive  beside 
her  grew  stronger.  A  wife  who  could  bewitch  the  hours 
away  with  such  music  as  this  would  be  no  undesirable  pos- 
session for  a  lldfc  man.  He  stooped  over  her  as  she  arose 
from  the  piano  at  last. 

'*  Come  out  on  the  balcony,"  he  said.  *'  The  night  is 
lovely,  and  the  good  people  yonder  are  altogether  engrossed 
in  their  cards  and  tiieir  small -talk.'' 

Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  blue  eyes  lighted  up.  She  knew 
intuitively  what  was  coming.  Without  a  word  she  stepped 
with  him  from  the  ojjen  French  wiuu  jw  out  into  the  star- 
lit night. 

What  is  it  that  Eyron  hays  about  solitude,  and  moon- 
light, and  youth?  A  dangerous  combination,  truly;  and 
so  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  found,  standing  side  by  side  with 
this  pale  daughter  of  a  hundred  earls,  under  the  swinging 
stars.  iJut  the  irrevocable  words  were  not  destined  to  bo 
spoken,  for  just  then  George  (Irosvenor,  goaded  to  jealous 
desi)eration,  stalked  out  through  the  open  casement  and. 
joined  them. 

The  big  midnight  moon  was  sailiufij  slowly  up  to  the 


THi:  baronet's  bride. 


67 


i 


aenitli  as  Sir  Everard  rode  home.  His  road  was  a  lonely 
one  at  all  times — doubl}'  lonely  through  Brithlow  Wood, 
which  shortened  his  journey  by  over  a  mile;  but  his 
thoughts  were  pleasant  ones,  and  he  hummed,  as  lie  rode, 
the  songs  Lady  Louise  had  sung. 

"  Confound  that  muff,  Grosvenorl"  he  thought.  '*  If 
it  had  not  been  for  his  impertinent  intrusion,  the  matter 
would  have  been  safely  settled  by  this  time — and  settled 
pleasantly  too,  I  take  it;  for,  without  being  a  conceited 
noodle,  I  really  think  Lady  Louise  will  -«ay  yes.  Ah! 
what's  this?" 

For  out  of  the  starlit  darkness,  from  among  the  trees, 
started  up  a  giant  black  figure,  and  his  horse  was  grasped 
by  the  bridle  and  hurled  back  upon  his  haunches.  He 
was  in  the  midst  of  the  wood,  midnight  solitude  and  gloom 
around. 

"  You  villain,**  the  young  man  danntlessly  cried,  "  let 
go  my  bridle-rein  I    Who  are  you?    What  do  you  want?" 

"  I'm  Dick  Darkly,"  answered  a  deej),  gruff  voice,  '*  and 
1  wfint  your  heart's  blood  I" 

"  You  poaching  scoundrell"  exclaimed  Sir  Everard, 
quick  as  lightning  raising  his  riding-whip  and  slashing  the 
aggressor  a(5ros8  the  face.     *'  Let  go  my  horse's  head!" 

With  a  cry  thut  was  like  the  roar  of  a  wild  beast  the  man 
sprung  back.  The  next  instant,  with  a  horrible  oath,  he 
had  seized  the  young  man  in  the  grasp  of  a  giant,  and  torn 
him  out  of  the  saddle. 

"  ril  tear  you  limb  from  limb  for  that  blow,  by  heav- 
ens!" Dick  Darkly  shouted.  **  If  I  hadn't  meant  to  kill 
you  before,  I  would  kill  you  for  that  cut  of  your  whip. 
I've  waited  for  you.  Sir  Everard  Kingsland!  I  swore  re- 
venge, and  revenge  I'll  have!  I'll  kill  you  this  night,  if 
they  hang  me  for  it  to-morrow!" 

He  had  the  strength  of  a  dozen  such  men  as  the  slender 
young  baronet.  He  towered  up  in  the  weird  night  like  a 
grim,  black  monster,  with  murder  in  his  face,  and  a  devil 
gleaming  in  cither  eye.  He  held  his  victim  in  a  grip  of 
iron,  from  which  he  struggled  madly  to  get  free,  while 
the  horse,  with  a  shrill  neigh  of  terror,  started  off  rider- 
less. 

'*  I  swore  Vd  kill  you,  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,"  Dick 
Darkly  growled,  "  when  you  put  my  poor  brother  in  Wor- 
rel  Jail  for  buaring  the  miserable  rabbits  t#  keep  his  sick 


:.■  i; 


I  < 


!    ] 


68 


THE    T1ATI0NET  S    BRIDE. 


wife  jvnd  children  from  starving.  1  swore  it,  and  I'll  l-oep 
my  ofith.  You  told  your  gamokeoper  this  very  day  you 
would  lush  mo  like  a  dog,  and  duck  me  after.  Aha,  Sir 
I^]verard!  Where's  the  horsc-whi])  and  the  horsc-j^'Ond 
now?" 

"Here!"  shouted  the  young  baronet;  and  with  a  mighty 
effort  ho  freed  his  arm'?,  and  raising  the  whip,  slashed  I)ick 
J)arkly  for  the  second  time  across  the  face.  "  You  mur- 
dering villain,  you  hhall  swing  for  tliis!" 

Witii  a  blind  roar  of  jiain  a!id  rage,  the  murderer  closed 
with  his  victim.  "J^hey  grappled,  jiud  rolled  over  and  over 
in  each  other's  arms.  Kow  the  baronet  was  up])ermosfc, 
now  his  assailant,  in  a  silent,  deadly  struggle. 

The  moonlight,  sifting  down  through  the  trees,  saw  the 
grim,  white  faces,  the  starting  eye-balis,  the  blood-staiueil 
grass.  Panting  and  speechless,  the  death-struggle  went 
on;  but  Sir  Everard  was  no  match  for  the  biiriy  giant. 
His  sight  was  failing  him,  his  breath  coming  in  choking 
gasps,  his  hands  jiowerlessly  relaxing  their  hold.  With  a 
savage  cry,  the  huge  poacher  thrust  his  hand  into  his  belt, 
and  a  long,  blue-bladed  kniio  gleamed  murderously  in  the 
moon's  rays. 

"At  last!"  he  panted,  his  face  distorted  with  llenilish 
fury.  "  I'll  have  your  heart's  blood,  as  I  sworo  I'd  have 
it!'"' 

He  lifted  the  murderous  knife.  Sir  Everard  Knigsland 
tried  to  gasp  one  last  brief  prayer  in  that  supreme  mo- 
ment. In  another  he  knew  that  deadly  blade  would  be  up 
to  the  hilt  in  his  heart. 

"Help!"  he  cried,  with  a  last  wild  struggle — "help! 
help!  murder!" 

There  was  a  rustling  in  the  trees  and  some  one  sprung 
out.  The  last  word  was  lost  in  the  sharp  report  of  a  pia- 
tol,  and  with  an  unearthly  scream  of  agony,  Dick  Darkly 
dropped  his  knife  and  fell  backward  on  the  grass. 


CHArTEU  yiii. 

A  MYSTERIOUS   YOUNG   MAN"« 


TnE  baronet  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  stood  face  to  face 
with  his  preserver.  The  giant  trees,  towering  up  uutil 
tbey  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky,  half  shut  out  the  mooa- 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE, 


59 


»9P 


tho 


light,  but  yet  Sir  Everavd  could  see  that  it  was  a  slender 
stripling  who  stood  beforo  him,  a  slouched  hat  pulled  far 
over  his  eyes. 

"  I  owe  you  my  life/'  he  cried,  grasping  the  youth's 
hand.  *'  An  instant  later,  and  1  would  have  been  in  eter- 
nity.    How  shall  I  ever  thank  you?" 

''  Don't  make  the  attempt,'*  replied  the  lad,  coolly. 
*'  It  was  the  merest  chance-work  in  the  world  that  sent  me 
bti-e  to-night." 

*'  Donb  call  it  chance,  my  boy.  It  was  Providence  sent 
you  to  save  a  life." 

The  youth  laughed — a  soft  and  silvery  laugh  enough, 
but  with  an  unpleasant  latent  mockery. 

"  Providence?  I'm  afraid  that  great  guiding  Power  has 
very  little  to  do  with  my  actions.  However,  you  may  be 
right.  Proviilence  may  have  wished  to  save  your  life,  and 
was  not  partioulai*  as  to  the  means.  Let  us  look  to  this 
fellow.  1  hope  my  stray  shot  has  not  killed  him  out- 
right." 

They  both  stooped  over  the  fallen  giant.  Dick  Darkly 
lay  on  his  face,  groaning  dismally,  the  blood  pumping 
from  his  chest  with  every  breath. 

"  It's  an  ugly-looking  hole,"  said  Sir  Everard.  *'  Two 
inches  lower,  and  it  would  have  gone  straight  through  his 
heart.  As  it  is,  it  will  pat  a  stop  to  his  assassinating  pro- 
clivities for  awhile,  I  fanc}'.  Lie  still,  you  matchless 
scoundrel,  wiiile  I  try  and  stop  this  flow  of  blood." 

He  knelt  beside  the  groaning  man  and  endeavored  to 
stanch  the  n  d  giu-hing  with  his  handkerchief.  The  youth 
stood  bv,  gazing  calmly  ou. 

''  What  do  you  i?iean  to  do  with  him?"  he  asked. 

*'  Send  some  of  my  people  to  take  him  to  his  home,  and 
as  soon  as  he  is  suljieieutly  recovered  to  stand  his  trial  for 
attempted  murder — " 

"For  God's  sake.  Sir  EverardI"  faintly  moaned  the 
wounded  man. 

*'  Ah,  you  audacious  villain,  ynu  can  supplicate  now!  If 
I  let  you  oil*  this  time,  my  life  would  not  be  worth  an 
hour's  purchase.  Once  you  were  able  to  stand  again  ou 
your  rascally  legs,  I  should  be  shot  at  like  a  dog  from  be- 
hind a  Iiedge." 

"  What  (lid  ho  call  you?"  asked  the  boy,  with  sudden, 
sharp  anxiety  iu  his  tone.     '*  Whose  life  have  I  savedl''" 


1    :■ 

! 
I 


i  i 


I 


' 


THE   baronet's    BRIDE. 

"  I  am  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  of  Kingsland  Court," 
the  baronet  answorod.     "  And  you  are — who?'' 

The  light  there  in  that  dusky  woodland  path  was  too 
dim  for  Sir  Everard  to  see  the  change  that  passed  over  the 
youth's  face  at  these  words.  It  turned  to  a  dull,  leaden 
white.  His  right  hand  involuntarily  clutched  the  dis- 
charged pistol  and  his  eyes  glowed  like  live  coals. 

"  Sir  Everard  Kingsland!"  he  slowly  repeated,  and  his 
very  voice  had  altered.     "  And  I  have  saved  your  life!" 

"  For  which  Heaven  be  praised!  It  is  a  very  i)leasant 
world,  this,  and  I  have  no  desire  just  yet  to  leave  it.  Pray 
tell  me  the  name  of  my  preserver!" 

He  had  stanched  the  flow  of  blood  and  now  stood  before 
the  youth,  trying  to  see  his  hidden  face.  But  the  boyish 
head  drooped. 

"  Never  mind  my  name;  it  is  of  no  consequence  who  1 
am.  I  have  a  long  journey  before  me;  1  am  very  weary 
and  footsore,  and  it  is  time  I  was  on  my  way." 

*'  Weary  and  footsore?"  repeated  the  baronet.  "  Nay 
— then  all  the  more  need  we  should  not  part.  Come  homo 
with  me  and  rest — to-night,  at  least.  1  owe  you  a  heavy 
debt,  and  I  should  like  to  jmy  a  little  of  it." 

"  You  owe  me  nothing!"  His  eyes  gleamed  under  his 
tat  and  his  teeth  clinched,  as  he  spoke.  "  Nothing,  Sir 
Everard  Kingsland!  Let  us  say  good-bye.  1  must  reach 
Worrel  by  sunrise. " 

*'  And  so  you  shall.  The  fleetest  steed  in  my  stables 
vshall  carry  you.  But  come  to  Kingsland  and  rest  for  the 
night.  If  you  will  not  accept  my  thanks,  accept  at  least 
the  shelter  of  my  roof." 

The  boy  seemed  to  hesitate. 

The  baronet  took  advantage  of  that  momentary  hesita- 
tion and  drew  his  arm  through  his  own.  There  was  not  a 
prouder  man  in  wide  England,  but  this  unknown  lad  had 
saved  his  life,  and  Sir  Everard  was  only  two-and-tvventy, 
and  full  of  generous  impulses. 

*'  Come,"  he  said,  '*  don't  be  obstinate.  You  own  to 
being  footsore  and  weary.  Kingsland  is  very  near,  and  a 
night's  rest  will  do  you  good," 

The  hidden  face  flushed,  the  hidden  eyes  glowed,  but 
the  voice  that  answered  was  calm. 

"  Thanks!  I  accept  your  kind  hospitality.  Sir  Everard, 
on  two  conditions." 


\ 


^ 


'  I 


THE    baronet's    bride. 


m. 


**  On  any  conditions  you  choose,  mo7i  ami.  "What  aro 
they?'' 

"  That  BO  one  shall  know  it  but  yourself,  and  that  I 
may  depart  before  day-dawn." 

*'  I  dislike  that  last  condition  very  much;  but  it  must  bo 
as  you  say.  Sleep  in  safety,  most  mysterious  youth;  no 
oae  shall  know  you  are  under  my  roof,  an']  I  will  come 
and  wake  you  myself  at  the  first  peep  of  day.  Will  that 
do?" 

'*  Admirably.  You  are  very  kind  to  take  all  this  trouble 
for  a  nameless  tramp.  Sir  Everard. " 

"  Am  1?  Even  when  the  nameless  tramp  saved  my 
life?" — yet  Sir  Everard  winced  a  little  while  saying  it. 
*'  And  that  reminds  me,  we  must  hasten,  if  yonder  fallen 
villain  is  to  recover  from  his  wound-  Ilis  condition  is  not 
an  enviable  one  at  this  moment." 

*'  How  did  it  happen?"  the  boy  asked. 

And  the  young  baronet  repeated  the  story  of  Dick 
Darkly's  provocation  and  vow  of  revenge. 

As  he  concluded  they  passed  through  the  stately  gates, 
up  the  majestic  sweep  of  drive,  to  the  imposing  old  man- 
sion. 

"  Home!"  Sir  Everard  said,  gayly.  "■  Solitude  and 
darkness  reign,  you  see.  The  family  have  long  since  re- 
tired, and  we  can  pass  to  our  respective  dormitories  un- 
seen and  unheard." 

The  boy  looked  up  with  his  brilliant,  glowing  eyes. 
There  was  more  than  mere  curiosity  in  that  look — the 
bright,  fierce  eyes  actually  seemed  to  glare  in  the  moon- 
light. But  he  did  not  speak.  In  silence  he  followed  Sir 
Everard  in,  up  the  noble  marble  stair-way,  along  richly 
carpeted,  softly  lighted  corridors,  and  into  a  stately  cham- 
ber. 

"  You  will  sleep  here,"  Sir  Everard  said.  **  My  room 
is  near,  and  I  am  a  light  sleeper.  To-morrow  morning  at 
five  I  will  rouse  you.  Until  then  adieu,  and  pleasant 
dreams." 

He  swung  out  and  closed  the  door,  and  not  once  had  lie 
neen  the  face  of  his  guest.  "JUiat  guest  stoo«l  in  tlw  center 
of  the  handsome  chamber,  and  gazed  around  with  glitter- 
jng  eyes. 

*'  At  last!"  he  hissos  between  his  set  white  teeth — *'  at 


!f 


i   tj 
I 

!•  i 

n 


62 


THE    UARONKT'S    BUIDK. 


last,  after  two  ycurs'  we;uy  Wiiitiiig!  At  Jast,  obi  my 
molher,  iho  timo  luu-^  corne  for  me  to  kee])  luy  vo\r!" 

ilc  raised  one  urn  \  ilii  ii  trajj^ic  gesture,  removed  the 
slouched  hat,  and  stood  uncovered  in  the  tranquil  half 
li^ht. 

Th)  f;ice  was  woudorfuMy  handsome,  of  gypsy  darkness, 
ami  the  eyes  shone  like  black  stai's;  but  a  .scarlet  hand- 
kerchief was  bound  ti^;hi,ly  arou'id  his  head,  anil  concealed 
every  vestige  of  hair.  With  a  t.iow  smilu  creeping  round 
his  niMuth,  the  boy  took  his  handkerchief  olr*. 

"  To-ui'-vrow  he  will  com.;  and  call  me,  but  to-morrow 
I  shall  not  leave  Kingsland  Court.  Ko,  my  dear  young 
baronet,  I  have  not  saved  your  life  for  nothing!  I  shall 
have  the  honor  of  remaining  your  guest  for  some  time." 

AH  dressed  as  he  wiis,  he  ilung  himself  on  the  bed,  mid 
in  ten  minutes  n'as  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTEll    IX. 

MISS   SYISILLA   SILVER. 

Meantime  8ir  Everard  had  aroused  his  valet  and  a 
brace  of  tall  footmen,  and  dispatched  them  to  the  aid  of 
the  wounded  man  in  the  wood.  And  then  he  sought  his 
own  chamber,  and,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  aimless  tossing, 
dropped  into  an  uueasy  biyjvp. 

And  sleeping,  Sir  h'vovard  had  a  singular  dream.  Ho 
was  walking  tlu'ough  Brithlow  Wood  with  Lady  Louise  on 
his  arm,  the  moonlight  sifting  through  the  tall  trees  as  ho 
had  seen  it  last.  >Sii  idenly,  with  a  rustle  and  ahis>,  ahuge 
green  serpent  gl'ded  out,  reanw.l  itself  up,  ai  J  glared  at 
them  with  eves  of  Ueiidlv  m.'mi(-e  x\nd  somehow,  though 
he  lial  nut  yet  seen  the  lad's  faoe,  he  kiiew  the  hissing  sor- 
p-nt  and  the  pre.:!yrver  of  h's  iile  were  one  and  the  bame. 
With  horrible  hisses  the  monster  encircled  him.  lis  fetid 
bre^'h  was  in  his  face,  ils  di'adiv  fangs  reudv  to  strike  his 
deaii-bltw,  and,  with  a  suli'ocating  cry,  Sir  Everard  awoko 
from  his  nlghttuiire  and  t-Uai'tcd  up  in  b'jd. 

The  cold  persoiiation  i^toud  on  his  brow,  and  the  ftrwt 
little  pink  cloud  of  da.vn  was  rosy  in  the  ea<t. 

*' Good  heaven-I  such  a  night  oi'  horrors,  waking  and 
sleeping!  A  laost  u;igi'aU;ial  dream,  trtdyl  It  is  tifiaei 
awoke  my  unknown  presoi  ver. " 


i 


'ijii 


■i 


THE    BARONRT  S    nr.TDE. 


f?3 


TTe  sprung  out  of  1>;  d,  tlrc-ssed  hastily,  nnd  made  his  waM 
to  thft  clianibor  of  hi:;  giioat  Jie  rj'.ppod  at  tlio  door — 
onoc,  t\vi/t',  thri'>i,  loiilrr  vivh  tinio,  but  ntill  no  answer. 
TluMi  h ;  turned  tho  han'lfe  and  W'.-nt  in.  But  on  tho  vory 
throdiohl  ho  recoiled  a<?  if  ho  had  been  struck. 

Tlie  rii3'.steriju3  youth  lay  fast  asleep  upon  the  bed, 
dress.'d  as  ho  h'ld  left  him,  with  the  exception  of  the 
slouched  hat  and  the  red  cotton  handkerchief.  They  lay 
on  tho  carp'^t;  and  oves*  the  jmIIows,  and  over  the  coarse 
rolvc'tcen  j;icket  streamed  such  a  wealth  of  blue-black  hair 
as  tiie  biironet  in  all  his  life  never  before  beheld.  It 
rcjv'hod  to  the  sleeper's  waist  in  its  rich,  luxurious  abun- 
dance. 

"  Powers  above!'*  Sir  Everard  gasped,  in  his  iittor 
amaze,  "  what  can  tliis  mean?'* 

lie  ad/aiijod  with  bated  breath,  bent  over  and  gazod  at 
tiie  sleeper's  face.  One  look,  and  his  Hashing  first  suspi- 
cion was  a  certainty.  This  dark,  youthful,  faultlessly 
beautifid  face  was  a  woman's  face;  that  llowiiig  cloud  of 
blue-black  hair  was  a  womaii's  hah*.  A  girl  in  velveteen 
shootin'j-jacket  and  pantaloons,  handsome  as  some  dusky 
Indian  princess,  lay  a.sleop  before  him. 

Sir  Everanl  King^land,  in  the  last  stage  of  bewilderment 
and  amaze,  retr'ated  precipitately  atid  shut  the  door. 

"And  to  think,"  he  said  to  himiclf  in  tho  passage, 
when  he  could  catch  his  breath,  "  that  my  mysterious 
young  man  of  BrithI«)W  Wood  should  turn  out  to  bo  a  mys- 
terious young  woman!     x\nd  a  dead  shot  at  that,  by  Jove!" 

The  insta.'it  the  cha/nber  door  closed  the  mysterious 
young  nnxn  raixid  himself  on  his  (;lbow,  very  wide  awake, 
his  handsome  face  lighted  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  step  the  sucond  has  been  taken,  and 
Sir  Everard  has  diseo»(;red  the  sex  of  hit  preserver.  As 
ho  is  tco  deiit-ate  to  disturb  a  slnnibering  lady  in  disguise^ 
tho  slumbering  lady  must  disturb  him!" 

He— or  rather  she — leaped  lightly  oif  the  bed,  picked  up 
the  scarlet  ban  ianna,  twisted  scipntitically  tho  abundant 
black  hair,  bound  it  up  with  the  handkerchief,  and  crushed 
down  over  all  theslouoiied  hat.  Then,  with  the  handsome 
face  overshadowed,  and  all  expression  screwed  out  of  it, 
she  opened  the  door,  and  saw,  as  she  expected,  the  young 
btu'onot  ill  the  passage. 

He  stopped  at  once  «t  sight  of  her.     He  had  been  walk* 


64 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


I    !      1 

:   I 

r  I  i  'i 


ing  up  and  down,  with  an  exceedingly  surprised  and  per- 
j)lexeil  face;  and  now  he  stood  with  his  great,  Saxon-Dltw» 
eyes  piercingly  fixed  ujion  the  young  person  in  velveteen, 
whose  jacket  and  trousers  told  one  story,  and  whoso 
streaming  dark  hair  told  quite  another. 

"  It  is  past  sunrise.  Sir  Everard,"  his  preserver  began, 
with  a  reproachful  glance,  "  and  you  have  broken  your 
])rorni8e.     You  said  you  would  awake  me/' 

"  I  beg  your  i)ardon,"  retorted  Sir  Evorard,  quietly;  *'  1 
have  broken  no  promise.  I  came  to  your  room  tea- min- 
utes ago  to  arouse  you,  as  1  said  1  would.  I  knocked 
thrice,  and  received  no  reply.  Then  1  entered.  You 
must  excuse  me  for  doing  so.  How  was  1  to  know  I  was 
entertaining  angels  unaware?" 

With  a  low  cry  of  consternation  his  hearer's  hands  flew 
up  and  covered  his  face,  to  hide  the  blushes  that  were  not 
there. 

'•  Your  red  handkerchief  and  hat  do  you  good  service  in 
your  masquerade,  mademoiselle.  I  confess  I  should  never 
suspect  a  lady  in  that  suit  of  velveteen." 

With  a  sudden  theatrical  abandon  the  '*  lady  in  velvet- 
een "  flung  herself  on  her  knees  at  his  feet. 

"  Forgive  me!"  she  cried,  holding  up  her  clasped  hands. 
"  Have  pity  on  me!  Don't  reveal  my  secret,  for  Heaven's 
sake." 

'*  Forgive  you!"  repeated  Sir  Everard,  hastily,  endeav- 
oring to  raise  her.  He  had  a  true  masculine  hatred  of 
scenes,  and  the  present  seemed  a  little  overdone.  *'  What 
have  1  to  forgive?  Pray  get  up;  there  is  no  reason  you 
should  kneel  and  supplicate  pity  from  me.  You  are  wel- 
come to  don  inexpressibles  to  the  last  day  of  your  life,  as 
far  as  1  am  concerned." 

He  raised  her  imperatively.  Her  head  dropped  in  wom- 
anly confusion,  and,  hiding  her  face,  she  sobbed. 

*'  What  must  you  think?  How  dreadful  it  must  look! 
But,  oh.  Sir  Everard!  if  you  only  knew — if  you  only 
knew!" 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  I  confess.  Come  here  in  this 
window  recess  and  tell  mo,  won't  you?  The  servants  will 
be  about  presently,  and  will  disturb  us.  Come,  look  up, 
and  don't  cry  so.     Tell  me  who  you  are. " 

**  I  am  Sybilla  Silver,  and  I  have  run  away  from  bomfiir 
and  I  will  die  sooner  than  ever  go  back!" 


i 

i     ■ 


THE    BARONErS    BRIDl. 


65 


Slie  looked  up  with  a  puH8ionu!;e  outbreak,  and  Sir  Evor- 
ard,  for  tlio  first  time,  saw  the  luminous  splendor  of  a 


pair  of  flashing  Spanish  eyes. 


Why  did 


*'  1  ahail  not  send  you  back,  depend  upon  it. 
you  run  away.  Miss  Silver?" 

He  smiled  a  little  as  he  said  it,  the  feminine  appellation 
flound*3d  so  incongruous  addressed  to  this  slender  lad  in  vel- 
veteen. Again  the  flashing  brightness  of  the  sivlondid 
Spanish  eyes  dazzled  him. 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  know?"  she  asked,  earnestly. 
"  Oh,  Sir  Evcrard  Kingsland,  will  you  indeed  be  my 
friend?" 

"  Your  true  and  faithful  friend,  my  poor  girl!"  he  an- 
swered, moved  by  the  piteous  appeal.  "  Surely  I  could 
hardly  be  less  to  one  who  so  bravely  saved  my  life." 

"Ah!  that  w.'^s  notliing.  I  lay  no  claim  on  that.  Serve 
mo  as  you  would  c'^rv,  any  friendless  girl  in  distress;  and 
jrou  are  brave  and  generous  and  noble,  1  know." 

The  young  baronet  smiled. 

"  You '  do  me  proud,*  mademoiselle.  Suppose  you  cease 
complimenting,  and  begin  at  the  beginning.  Who  are  your 
friends,  and  why  did  you  leave  them,  and  where  have  you 
Tun  away  from?" 

"  From  Yorkshire,  Sir  Everard — yes,  all  the  way  from 
Yorkshire  in  this  disguise.  Ah!  it  seems  very  bold  and 
unwomanly,  does  it  not?  But  my  uncle  was  such  a  tyrant, 
and  I  had  no  appeal.  I  am  an  orphan.  Sir  Everard.  My 
father  and  mother  have  been  dead  since  my  earliest  recol- 
!!ection,  and  this  uncle,  my  sole  earthly  relative,  has  been 
my  guardian  and  tormentor.  I  can  not  tell  you  how 
cruelly  he  has  treated  me.  1  have  been  immured  in  a  des- 
olate old  country-house,  without  friends  or  companions  of 
my  own  age  or  sex,  and  left  to  drag  on  a  useless  and  aim- 
less life.  My  poor  father  left  me  a  scant  inheritance;  but, 
Buch  as  it  is,  my  uncle  set  his  greedy  heart  upon  adding  it 
to  his  own.  To  do  this,  he  determined  upon  marrying  mo 
to  his  only  son.  My  cousin  William  was  his  father  over 
again — meaner,  more  cruel  and  crafty  and  cold-blooded, 
if  possible — and  utterly  abhorred  by  me.  I  would  sooner 
have  died  ten  thouGand  deaths  than  marry  such  a  sordid, 
hateful  wretch  ?  l^ut  marry  him  I  surely  must  have  done, 
if  I  remained  in  their  power.  So  1  fled.  With  inconceiv- 
able trouble  and  maneuyering,  I  obtained  this  suit  of 


1    f 


i 

1' 

J 

M  THK    UAltONKT*R    BUTT>r* 

olothos.  If  T  flc'fl  uji(li!^<4iiisoil,  J  kiiuw  I  would  certainly  be 
pursued,  ovtu'tukon,  uud  l)rou;>lil.  b;iL!k.  In  tho  dt'ud  of 
iii^lit  I  oponed  my  cluvnibor  window  and  niiulo  my  cstHpo. 
r  took  a  loaded  i)istol  ol'  iny  ujiclo's  with  mo;  I  know  how 
to  U80  it,  utul  I  I'olt  sjil'o  with  suoh  a  pvoti'ctor.  My  old 
uuFhO  lived  in  riyniouLli  with  her  diin^^ditur,  iuul  to  lior  I 
meant  to  go.  I  hud  a  littlo  money  with  mo,  anil  made 
<;ood  my  eycape.  i\iy  disiguido  waved  me  I'rom  busjueion 
ami  inault.  Last  night,  on  my  way  to  Worrel,  T  lieard 
your  cry  for  hei|),  and  my  ])ijstol  «tood  mo  in  gooil  stead, 
for  tlio  fh\st  time.  1'lioro,  Sir  KvevarJ,  you  know  all.  1 
hato  and  deapise  my.self  for  tho  diesa  J  wear,  but  aurely 
there  is  souio  exeuso  to  be  madu  for  mo." 

Tho  Spanish  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  were  raised  iu)- 
ploringly  to  his,  and  Sir  Everard  was  two-and-twonty,  and 
very  susceptible  to  a  beautiful  wonuin's  tears. 

"  Very  much  excuse,  my  l>oor  girl!'*  ho  said,  warndy. 
"  1  am  the  last  on  earth  to  blamo  you  for  Hying  from  a 
detested  marriiigc.  But  there  is  uo  need  to  wear  this  dis- 
guise longer,  surely?" 

*'No;  no  need.  But  I  have  liad  no  opportunity  of 
changing  it;  and  if  I  do  not  tuciceed  in  linding  my  nnrcO 
at  Plymouth,  J  don't  know  wlnit  will  become  of  me." 

"  ilave  you  not  her  address?" 

"No;  neither  have  1  hoard  from  her  in  a  long,  long 
time.  She  lived  in  Plymouth  years  ago  with  luu-  marrieil 
daughter,  but  wo  never  corri'Sj)onded;  and  whether  she  is 
there  now,  or  whether  indeed  she  is  living  at  all,  1  do  not 
know.  I  caught  at  tho  hope  as  the  drowidng  (iateh  at 
straws." 

Sir  Everard  paused  thoughtfully  a  moment.  She  had 
removed  the  ugly  hat  and  handkerchief  while  talking,  and 
the  luxuriant  hair  streamed  in  a  glossy  mass  of  curls  anfl 
Tipples  over  her  shoulders. 

He  looked  at  her  in  that  thoughtful  pause.  How  bcaati- 
ful  she  was  in  her  dark,  glowing  girlhood — how  friendless, 
how  desolate  iu  the  world. 

All  that  was  chivalric,  and  generous,  and  romantic,  and 
impulsivoly  youthful  in  the  handsome  barouet  awoke. 

"  It  would,  be  the  wildest  of  wild-goose  chases,  theo," 
he  said,  "  knowing  as  little  of  your  nurse's  wheroaboata.  aB 
yo«  do,  to  seek  her  iu  Plymouth  now.    Write  first,  w  ad- 


THE    HAU0NKT8    IJUIDE. 


Of 


>J 


vort)80  in  tlio  loiuil  jourruils.  If  s\u)  is  still  ro«idont  there, 
tlmt  will  IVtch  hor." 

'*  Wriul  udvortiso!''  Sybillu  Silver  rojR'utt'il,  uiLb  un- 
flpujikiiblc  iMuiiniliiliit's^:  *"  from  wlioiico,  Sir  Kvcranl?" 

*'  From  horo/'unrtWcrwl  tho  Imntnut,  ilccidiHlly.  '*  You 
uluUl  not  lujivc  horo  until  you  liiul  your  friciuLs.  And  you 
shall  not  woar  this  odiou.s  disguise  un  hour  longer,  (io 
back  to  your  chamber  and  wait." 

lie  rose  abruptly  a'.id  loft  hor;  and  Miss  Sybiliii  Silver, 
with  a  steely  glitter  in  her  handsome  black  eyes  anil  a  dis- 
agreeably derisive  smile  about  her  pretty  mouth,  got  up 
and  went  slowly  back  to  her  room. 

'*  What  an  egregious  mull  he  isl"  she  said  to  herself, 
contemptuously.  "  'j'here  is  no  cleverness  in  fouling  such 
an  imbecile  as  that.  1  am  going  on  velvet  for  so  far;  I 
only  hojw  my  lady  may  be  us  easily  dealt  with  as  my  latly'a 
only  son." 

iiy  lady's  only  son  went  straight  to  a  door  down  tho 
corridor,  quite  at  tho  other  cxtriuiity,  and  opened  it. 

As  he  expected  at  that  early  hour,  he  found  it  deserted. 
It  was  a  lady*s  dressing-room  evidently,  and  a  miracle  of 

E late-glass,  and  gilding,  and  cedai'  closets,  and  prettiness. 
laid  out,  all  ready  for  wear,  was  a  lady's  morning  toilet 
complete,  and  without  more  lulo  Sir  ]*>erard  conliscatod 
the  whole  concern.  At  the  white  cashmere  robe  alone  ho 
caviled. 

**  This  is  too  gay;  I  must  find  a  more  sober  garment. 
All  the  maid-servants  in  tho  house  would  recognize  this 
immediately. " 

He  went  to  one  of  the  closets,  searched  there,  and  pres- 
ently reappeared  with  a  black  silk  dress,  liolling  all  up 
in  a  heap,  he  started  at  once  with  his  prize,  laughing  in- 
wardly at  the  figure  he  cut. 

"  If  Lady  Louise  saw  mo  now,  or  my  lady  mother,  either, 
for  that  macter!  What  will  Mildred  and  her  maid  say,  I 
wonder,  when  they  find  burglars  have  been  at  work,  and 
her  matutinal  toilet  stolen?" 

He  bore  the  bundle  straight  to  the  chamber  of  his  pretty 
runaway,  and  tapped  at  tho  door.  It  was  discreetly  opened 
dD  inch  or  two. 

"  Here  are  some  clothes.  When  you  are  dressed,  come 
out.     I  will  wait  in  the  passage. " 

Thank  you,"  Miss  Silver's  soft  voice  said — she  Lad 


*(  n 


68 


Tllii;    r.AUONET  8    BKIDE. 


a  peculiarly  soft,  swcot  voice — dwd  tlieii  ilio  door  closed  aud 
Sir  Everarcl  was  left  to  wait. 

The  yomiir  person  wlioso  adventures  were  so  lii^ldy  sen- 
sational ilofTed  her  velveteens  and  donned  the  dainty  j;ar- 
ments  oi'  Miss  Mildred  Kingsland.  Shu  exaudned  the  line, 
snow-white  \hw\i  with  a  curious  smile. 

Ail  tlie  tilings  were  beautifully  made  and  embroidered, 
njHikcd  witli  tlie  initials  ''  M.  K.,"  and  adorned  with  the 
Kiuf^shmd  crest.  And,  strange  to  say,  all,  the  blacii  silk 
robe  included,  fitted  her  wonderfully.  The  dress  was 
rather  tight,  but  she  managed  to  fasten  it. 

"  Miss  Mildred  Kingsland  must  bo  tall  and  slender,  since 
her  dress  fits  me  so  well.  Ah,  what  a  change  even  a  black 
silk  dress  makes  in  one's  ai)i)earanc(!!  He  admired  me — 1 
saw  he  did,  in  jacket  and  pantaloons — what  will  he  do,  then, 
in  this?     Will  ho  fall  in  love  with  me.  I  womler?'* 

She  laughed  softly  to  herself  at  the  thought.  She  was 
busy  brushing  out  the  lux'iriant  tresses  aud  twisting  the 
long,  glossy  curls  around  hei  taper  fingers. 

One  parting  peep  in  the  glass,  and  she  opened  the  door 
and  stei)ped  out  before  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  a  dazzling 
vision  of  beauty. 

He  stood  and  gazed.  Could  he  believe  his  eyes?  "Was 
this  superb-looking  woman  with  the  llowing  curls,  the 
dark,  bright  beauty  and  imperial  mien,  Hie  lad  in  velveteen 
who  had  shot  the  poacher  last  night?  Why,  Cleopatra 
might  have  looked  like  that,  in  the  height  of  her  regJil 
splendor,  or  Queen  Semiramis,  in  the  glorious  days  that 


were  gone. 


"  This  is  indeed  a  transformation,"  he  said,  (doming  for- 
ward. "  Vour  disguise  was  perfect.  1  should  never  have 
known  you  for  the  youth  1  parted  from  ten  ndnutes  ago." 

"  1  can  never  thank  you  sutliciently.  Sir  Kverard.  Ah, 
if  you  knew  how  I  abhorred  myself  in  that  hateful  dis- 
Nothing  earthly  will  ever  induce  me  to  2>ut  it  on 


guise; 
again.' 


"1  trust  not,"  he  said,  gravely;  "let  us  hope  it  may 
never  be  necessary.  You  are  safe  here,  Miss  Silver,  from 
the  tyraiuiy  of  your  uncle  and  cousin.  The  friendless  and 
unprotected  shall  never  be  turned  from  Kingsland  Court." 

She  took  his  hand  and  lifted  it  to  her  lips,  and  once  more 
the  luminous  eyes  were  awimming  in  tears. 


i 


THE    75AROXKT  S    P. RIDE. 


09 


1 


Tho  aot.ion  was  tliejitricjvlly  graceful,  but  to  Sir  Everard 
very  real,  and  his  fair  face  reddened  like  a  girl's. 

"  1  vould  thank  yoii  if  I  could,  8ir  Everard,'*  the  sweet 
voice  inurmiued;  ""  but  you  overpower  me!  Your  good- 
uess  is  beyond  thanks/' 

A  footste])  on  tlji*  marble  stair  maile  itself  unpleasantly 
auilible  at  this  interesting  crisis.  Miss  Silver  dropped  the 
baronet's  hand  with  a  wild  instinct  of  ilight  in  her  great 
bhiek  eyes. 

*'  lictiirt)  to  your  room,"  Sir  Everard  whispered. 
"  Lock  tiio  door,  and  remain  there  until  1  apprise  my 
mother  of  your  preseiuio  hero  and  prepare  her  to  receive 
yoii.  Quick!  1  don't  want  tlu=se  prying  prigs  of  servants 
to  11  nd  you  here.  " 

She  \ranish(Ml  like  a  Hash. 

Sir  Everard  walked  down-stairs,  and  passed  his  own  valet 
sleepily  ascending. 

"  1  beg  your  ])arding.  Sir  llevorard,"  said  the  valet,  in 
a  tone  of  respectful  reproach;  "  but  \ve  was  all  very  anx- 
ious about  you.  Sir  (Jalahad  came  galloping  home  rider- 
less, and — " 

"  That  will  do,  Edward,  loii  did  not  disturb  Lady 
Kingsland?'' 

"No,  Sir  Jleverard." 

Sir  Everard  passed  abruptly  on  and  sought  the  stables 
at  once.  Sir  Galahad  was  there,  undergoing  hic5  morning 
toilet,  and  greeted  his  master  with  a  loud  neigh  of  delight. 

The  young  baronet  dawdled  away  the  lagging  morning 
hours,  smoking  endless  cigars  under  tho  waving  trees,  and 
waiting  for  the  time  when  my  lady  should  be  visible.  She 
rarely  rose  before  noon,  but  to-day  was  one  of  the  rare  oc- 
casions, and  she  deign'^d  to  get  up  at  nine.  Sir  Everard 
jHung  away  his  Jast  cigar,  and  went  bounding  up  the  grand 
stairs  three  at  a  time. 

Lady  Kingsland  sat  breakfasting  in  her  boudoir  with  her 
daughter — a  charming  little  bijou  of  a  room,  all  filigree 
work,  and  fluted  walls,  delicious  little  Greuze  paintingi, 
and  rtowcrs  and  perfume — and  J^ady  Kingsland,  in  an  ex- 
r|ui.sit('Iy  becoming  robe  de  matin,  at  live-and -fifty  looked 
f  lii-  a: id  handsome,  and  scarce  middle-aged  yet.  Time, 
I  hat  deal.!  so  gallantly  with  these  blonde  beauties,  had  just 
thinned   the  fair  hair  v.X  the  parting,  and  planted  dajnty 


1^ 


70 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


crow's-feet  about  the  patrician  mouth,  but  loft  the  white 
skin  unwrinklai  and  no  thread  of  silver  under  the  pretty 
Parisian  lace  cap. 

Mildred  Kingsland,  opposite  her  mother,  scarcely  bore 
her  thirty  years  so  gracefully.  She  looked  jialo  and 
passce,  worn  and  faded,  and  seemed  likely  to  remain  Miss 
Kiiigsland  to  the  end  of  her  days  now.  She  had  had  her 
little  romance,  poor  girl,  and  it  had  been  incontinently 
nipped  in  the  bud  by  imperious  mamma,  and  slie  had  duti- 
fully yielded,  with  the  pain  sharp  in  her  heart  all  the  same. 
But  he  was  poor,  and  Mildred  was  weak,  and  so  good-bye 
had  been  said  forever,  and  Lady  Kingsland's  only  daugh- 
ter glided  uncomplainingly  into  old-maidenhood. 

My  lady  glanced  over  her  shoulder,  and  greeted  her  son 
with  a  bright,  loving  smile.  He  was  her  darling  and  her 
pride — her  earthly  idol — the  last  of  the  Kingslands.  What 
was  a  pale-faced,  insipid  girl  like  Mildred  beside  this 
"  curled  darling  of  the  godsr"" 

"  Good-morning,  Everard!  1  thought  you  would  have 
done  Mildred  and  myself  the  honor  of  breakfasting  with 
us.  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  yet.  May  I  oiler  you  a  cup 
of  chocolate?** 

"  Not  at  all  too  late,  mother  mine.  I  accept  your  offer 
and  your  chocolate  on  the  spot.  Milly,  good-morning! 
You  are  white  as  your  dress! 

"  'Oh,  fair,  pnlo  ^Marjiarotl 
Oh,  rare,  pale  Margaret!' 

what  is  the  matter?" 

*'  Mildred  is  fading  away  to  a  shadow  of  late,"  his  motU 
er  said.     "  1  must  take  her  to  the  sea-shore  for  cliungo." 

"  When?"  asked  Sir  Everard. 

"  Let  mo  see.  Ah!  when  you  are  married,  I  think. 
What  time  did  you  come  home  last  night,  and  how  is  Laitly 
Louise?" 

'*  Lady  Louise  is  very  well.  My  good  mother  " — half 
laughing — '*  are  you  very  anxious  for  a  daughter-in-law  at 
Kingslaiid  to  quarrel  with?" 

*'  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  Laoly  Louise." 

"  Then,  willy-nilly,  it  must  be  JiOrd  Carteret's  daughter, 
and  no  other?' 

"  Everard,"  his  mother  said,  earnestly,  "  you  know  1 
iiave  set  my  heart  on  seeing  Lady  Louise  your  wife;  and 


THE    BARONETS    BRIDE. 


71 


she  loves  you,  1  know.     And  you,  my  darling  Everard — 
yott  will  not  disiippoint  me?" 

"  1  should  be  an  ungrateful  wretch  if  I  did!  Rest  easy, 
via  mere — Lady  Louise  shall  become  Lady  Kingsland,  or 
the  fault  shall  not  be  mine.  1  believed  I  should  have 
asked  the  momentous  little  question  last  night  but  for  that 
interloper,  (leorge  Grosvenor!" 

"Ahl  jealous,  of  course.  lie  is  always  de  //•o/>,  that 
great,  8tu])id  (Jcorge,"  my  lady  said,  complticontly.  '*  And 
was  the  dinner-party  agreeable;  and  what  time  did  you  get 
home?" 

'*  T'^e  dinner-party  wag  delightful,  and  I  came  home 
siiortly  after  midnight.  What  time  Sir  (Jalahad  arrived  I 
can't  say — half  an  hour  before  1  did,  at  least." 

Lady  Kingsland  looked  inrjuiringly. 

"  Did  you  not  ride  Sir  (Jalahad?" 

"  Yes,  until  I  was  torn  from  the  saddle!  My  dear 
mother,  I  met  with  an  adventure  last  night,  and  you  had 
like  never  to  see  your  precious  son  again. 

"Everard!'' 

"  Quite  true.  But  for  the  direct  interposition  of  Provi- 
dence, in  the  shajie  of  a  handsome  lad  in  velveteen,  who 
shot  my  assailant,  1  would  be  lying  now  in  Brithlow  Wood 
yonder,  as  dead  as  any  Kingsland  in  the  family  vault." 

And  then,  while  Lady  King.-land,  very,  very  pale  in  her 
alarm,  gazed  at  him  breathlessly.  Sir  Everard  related  his 
thrilling  midnight  adventure  and  its  cause. 

"  Good  heavens!"  my  lady  cried,  starting  from  her  seat 
and  clasping  him  convulsively  in  her  arms.  "  Oh,  to  think 
what  might  have  hapjwned!     My  boy — my  boy!" 

Tile  young  man  laughed  and  kissed  her. 

*'  Very  true,  mother;  but  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile, 
you  know.  Poetical  justice  befell  my  assailant;  and  here 
I  am  safe  and  sound,  sipping  chocolaie.  Another  cu]),  if 
you  ])lease,  Milly." 

"  And  the  preserver  of  your  life,  Everard — whore  is  he?" 

'*  Upstairs,  waiting,  like  patience  on  a  monument;  and, 
by  t})e  same  token,  f ousting  all  this  time!  But  it  isn't  a 
he,  m((  mere  ;  it's  a  she." 

"  Wiiat?" 

Sir  Everard  laughe<l. 

*'  Such  a  mystilied  face,  mother!    Oh^  it's  highly  seusa- 


72 


TllK    J5AU0NET.S    I5K1UK. 


It 


•i 


I  I:  I 


I' 

i 


i 


il 


•i    !■■ 


-f 


t-  ■ 
t 


tional  a!Kl  raolodranitttic,  I  promise  you!     Sit  down  and 
hoar  tlio  sequel.'^ 

And  then,  eloquently  and  ])ersuasivcly,  Sir  Everard  re- 
])cateil  Miss  Sybilla's  Silver's  extraordinary  story,  and  Lady 
Kingsland  was  properly  shocked. 

"  JJisguised  herself  in  men's  clothes!  My  dear  Everard, 
what  a  dreadful  creature  she  must  bo!'' 

"  Not  at  all  dreadful,  motlun-.  She  is  as  sensitive  ami 
womanly  a  young  lady  as  ever  1  saw  in  my  life.  And," 
pursued  the  baronet,  moderately,  "  she's  a  very  pretty 
girl,  too." 

Lady  Kingsland  looked  suspiciously  at  her  son.  She 
highly  disapproved  of  pretty  girls  whore  he  was  concerned; 
but  the  handsome  face  was  frank  and  «"'"^n  as  the  day, 
rather  laughing  at  her  than  Oiihcrwisc. 

"  Now  don't  be  suspicious.  Lady  Kingsland.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Sybilla  Silver,  I  give  you  my 
word  and  honor.  She  saved  my  life,  remember.  May  1 
not  fetch  her  here?" 

*'  What!  in  men's  clothes,  and  before  your  sister?  Ever- 
ard, how  dare  you?" 

Sir  Everard  broke  into  a  peal  of  boyish  laughter  that 
made  the  room  ring. 

"  I  don't  believe  she's  in  men's  clothes!"  exclaimed  Mil- 
dred, suddenly.  "  llonorinc  told  me  robbers  must  have 
been  in  my  dressing-room  last  night— half  my  things  wero 
stolen.     I  understand  it  now — Everaril  was  the  robber. " 

The  young  man  got  up  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  for  her,  mother,  liemember  she  is  friend- 
less, and  that  she  saved  your  son's  life." 

He  quitted  the  room  with  the  last  word.  That  claim, 
he  knew,  was  one  his  devoted  mother,  with  all  her  imperi- 
ous pride,  would  never  repudiate. 

"  Oh!"  she  said,  lying  back  in  her  chair  pale  and  faint, 
'*  to  think  what  might  have  ha])[)cne(l!" 

As  she  spoke  her  son  re-entered  the  room,  and  by  his 
side  a  young  lady — so  stately,  so  majestic  in  her  dark 
beauty,  that  involuntarily  the  mother  and  daugliter  arose. 

"  My  mother,  this  young  lady  saved  my  life.     Try  and 
thank  her  for  me.     Lady  Kin^rsland,  Mi;-..;,  Silver." 
some  siibi' 


rely 


I' 


dark  daughter  of  the  tarih.     'J'ht;  iitjiiid  (i;ii  k  «vis  lifted 
themselves  iu  mute  apjtLal  to  the  gual.  ludy'd  lui.c,  and 


I 


f 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


78 


then  the  proudest  woman  in  England  opened  her  arms 
with  a  sudden  impulse  and  took  the  outcast  to  her  bosom. 

"  1  can  never  thank  you,"  she  murmured.  "  The  serv- 
ice you  have  rendered  me  is  beyond  all  words.'* 

An  hour  later  Sybilla  went  slowly  back  to  her  room.  She 
had  breakfasted  tctc-a-tctc  wi^h  my  lady  and  her  daugh- 
ter, while  Sir  Everard,  in  scarlet  coat  and  cord  and  tops, 
had  mounted  his  bonny  bay  and  ridden  of!  to  Lady  Louise 
and  the  fox-hunt,  and  to  his  fate,  though  he  knew  it  not. 
And  in  that  hour  the  subtle  fascination  had  wrought  its 
spell. 

"  Pically,  Mildred,"  my  lady  said,  "  a  most  delightful 
youni^'  person,  truly.  Do  you  know,  if  she  does  not  suc- 
ceed in  finding  her  friends  I  should  like  to  retain  her  as 
a  companion?" 

Li  her  own  room  Sybilla  Silver  stood  before  the  glass, 
and  she  smiled  buck  at  her  own  image.  An  evil,  sardonic 
smile  it  was,  that  Lucifer  himself  might  have  worn. 

"  So,  my  lady,"  she  said,  "  you  walk  into  the  trap  with 
your  eyes  open,  too — you  who  are  old  enough  to  know  bet- 
ter? My  handsome  face  and  black  eyes  and  smooth  tongue 
stand  me  in  their  usual  good  stead.  And  I  saved  Sir  Ever- 
ard Kiugland's  life!  Poor  fools!  A  thousnd  times  bet- 
ter for  you  all  if  I  had  let  that  midnight  assassin  shoot  him 
down  hke  a  dog!" 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  SHAFT  FROM  CUPID* S  QUIVER. 

It  was  fully  ten  o'clock,  and  the  hunting-party  were 
ready  to  start,  when  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  joined  them, 
looking  handsome  and  happy  as  a  young  prince  in  his  very 
becoming  hunting  costume. 

The  meet  was  at  Brithlow  Brake,  and  half  a  dozen  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  dropped  in  on  their  way  to  cover,  were 
grouped  picturesquely  around  the  ladies. 

Of  course  the  young  baronet's  first  look  was  for  Lady 
Louise — he  scarcely  glanced  at  the  rest.  She  was  just  being 
assisted  into  the  saddle  by  the  di'voted  (Jeorge  (Irosvenoi-, 
but  she  turned  to  Sir  Everard  with  the  sweet  smile  he  had 
learned  to  know  so  well,  and  graciously  held  out  her  gauut- 
leted  hand. 

"Once  more,'' she  tuid,   "almost  late.     Laggard!    I 


f  I 


[<  > 


nil 


74 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


shall  quarrel  with  you  one  of  these  days  if  you  do  not  learn 
to  be  more  punctual/' 

"  You  will  never  have  to  reproach  mo  again,*'  he  said, 
gallantly.  "  Had  1  known  you  would  have  honored  my 
absence  by  a  thought,  you  should  not  have  had  to  reproach 
juo  now." 

"  Very  pretty,  indeed.  Sir  Everard.  But  don't  waste 
your  time  paying  complimentH  this  morning.  Thanks,  Mr. 
(frosvenor;  that  will  do.  For  whom  are  you  looking,  Sir 
Everard?  Lady  Carteret?  Oh,  she  is  going  to  see  as 
much  of  the  fun  as  she  can  from  the  carriage,  with  some 
other  ladies.  Miss  llimsden  and  myself  are  the  only  ones 
who  intend  to  ride.  JJy  the  way,  1  hope  Sir  Oalahad  will 
uphold  his  master's  reputation  to-day.  He  must  do  his 
very  bust,  or  AVliirlwind  will  boat  him." 

At  that  instant  a  red-coated  yoinig  gentleman  j<)ined 
them,  in  an  evident  state  of  excitement. 

"  I  say,  Kingsland,  who's  that  girl  on  the  splendid  roan? 
She  sits  superbly,  and  is  stunningly  handsome  besides.  I 
be^  your  pardon,  Lady  Louise — perhaps  you  know." 

Lady  Louise  laughed — h<3r  soft.,  malicious  laugh. 

"  fjord  Ernest  Strathmore  is  excited  on  the  subject. 
That  young  lady  is  Miss  Harriet  Hunsden.  Don't  lose 
yoiu'  head,  my  lord.  One  gentleman  possesses  that  heart, 
and  all  the  rest  of  you  may  sigh  in  vain." 

"  Indeed!     And  who  is  the  fortunate  possessor?" 

"  ('aptaiu  Hunsden,  her  father.  There  he  is  by  her  side 
now." 

At  the  first  mention  of  her  name  Sir  Everard  Kingsland 
had  turned  sharply  around  and  beheld — his  fate.  Uut  ho 
did  not  know  it.  Who  was  to  toll  him  that  that  tall,  im- 
perial-looking girl  with  the  gold-brown  hair,  the  creamy 
skin,  the  great  gray  eyes,  and  slender  shape,  was  to  over- 
turn tlio  whole  scheme  of  the  universe  for  Jiitn — to  drive 
him  blind  and  mad  with  the  frenzv  men  call  love?  He 
only  saw  a  handsome,  spirited-looking  girl,  sitting  a  mag- 
nificent roan  horse  as  easily  as  if  it  hail  been  an  arm-chair, 
and  talking  aninuitedly  to  a  stalwart  soldierly  man  with 
white  hair  and  mustache. 

As  he  glanced  away  from  his  prolonged  stare  he  met  the 
piercing  gaze  of  Lady  Jjouise's  tur(HU)is-blu(i  eyes. 

*' ViV  fu,  linifc?"  she  cried,  gayly.  "Oh,  my  pro- 
phetic soul!    Did  1  not  warn  you,  Sir  Everard?    Did  I  not 


^  i 


I' 


(3 


^  i 


THE    BAROKET'S    bride. 


75 


^ 


forptell  thftt  the  clashing  damsel  in  the  scarlet  habit  would 
j)lay  the  mischief  with  your  fox-hunting  hearts?  No,  nol 
never  deny  the  soft  impeachment  I  ]>ut  I  tell  j'on,  as  I 
told  Lord  Ernest,  it  is  of  no  use.  She  is  but  seventeen, 
and  '  ower  young  to  marry  yet. '  " 

Before  Sir  J^verard  could  retort,  the  «;ry  of  "  Hero  they 
come!'*  proclaimed  the  arrival  of  the  hounds,  and  as  the 
huntsmtm  j)asHed  ho  cast  rather  surly  glances  at  the  two 
mounted  ladies  with  pleasant  inward  visions  of  their  head- 
ing the  fox  and  being  in  the  way. 

The  hounds  were  put  into  the  gorse,  and  the  red-coats 
beiran  to  move  out  of  the  field  into  the  lane.  Sir  Everard 
and  Lady  Louise  with  them. 

A  loud  "  ll;Uloo!"  rang  through  the  air;  the  hounds 
«ame  with  a  ru«hi?ig  roar  over  a  fernte. 

"  There  he  i.s!"  cried  a  chorus  of  voices,  as  the  fox  flew 
over  the  groinid. 

And  at.  the  same  instant  Whirlwind  tore  by  like  its  name- 
sake, with  the  handsome  girl  in  the  sjwldle  upright  as  a 
dart.  Away  wcnit  Sir  (ialahad  belter  skelter,  side  by  side 
with  the  roan.  Tiady  Louise  and  her  sedate  nag  were  left 
hopelessly  behind. 

On  and  on  and  on  like  the  wind  Whirlwind  flew  the 
fences,  a»ul  Miss  Jlinisden  sat  in  her  saddle  like  a  queen  on 
her  throne,  never  swerving. 

The  young  baronet,  even  in  the  fierce  heat  of  the  hunt, 
oonlil  see  the  beautiful  glowing  face,  the  flashing  gray  eyes, 
and  the  hiimes  of  light  flickering  in  the  gold-brown  hair. 
Side  by  side  Sir  (Ialahad  and  Whirlwind  darted  to  the  eud 
of  the  fourth  inclosure. 

Then  (uinio  a  change — a  wall  of  black,  heavy  thorn  rose 
ahead,  which  no  one  was  mad  enough  to  face.  A  horrible 
wide  ditch  was  on  the  near  side,  and  Heaven  knows  what 
on  the  other. 

The  baronet  pulled  his  bay  violently  to  the  right  and 
looked  to  see  the  dashing  huntress  follow.  But,  no;  the 
blood  of  Miss  Hunsden  and  the  "  red-roan  steetl  "  was  up, 
and  straight  they  went  at  that  awful  pace,  scorning  to 
swerve  an  inch. 

"For  (>od*s  sake.  Miss  Hunsden  I"  cried  the  voice  of 
Lwd  Ernest  Strathmoro,  "don't  try  that!** 

Hut  he  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  cataract  of 
Niagara.     With  a  tremendous  iusl?  Whirlwind  charged  the 


i 


ft"*  }  '  ; 
f  )  >■ 


1-i   t 

!  ■  *   ■ 

.!    fe.. 

njj 

81 

'«! 

1 

H 

1 

7e 


THF    baronet's    BRIDE. 


a  \(  rrible  Tash—  «nothor— and  a  plunge 
:d  sick  with  horror;  but  tlie  magnifi- 


downward. 

Sir  E  orai 
cent  Whirhvinu  sotti   ;  into  his  stride,  and  tlio  girl  recov- 
ered her  balance  in  the  very  instant,  and  away  again  like 
the  wind. 

"Splendidly  done,  by  Jove!"  cried  Lord  Ernest,  his 
eyes  ablaze.  "  I  never  saw  a  lady  ride  before  like  that  ki 
all  my  life." 

Sir  Everard  dashed  on.  His  horse  was  on  his  mettle; 
but,  do  what  ho  would,  the  slender,  girlish  figure,  and 
superb  roan  kept  ahead.  Whirlwind  took  hedges  and 
ditches  before  him,  disdaining  to  turn  to  the  right  or  left, 
and  after  a  sharp  run  of  an  hour.  Miss  Hunsden  had  the 
glory  and  happiness  of  I'^mg  one  of  the  successful  few  up 
at  tlie  finish  in  time  to  .-  jc  the  fox,  quite  deatl,  held  over 
the  huntsman's  head,  with  the  hounds  hanging  expectant 
around. 

Every  eye  turned  upon  the  heroine  of  the  hour,  and  loud 
were  the  canticles  chanted  in  her  honor.  The  master  of 
the  hounds  himself  rode  up,  all  aglow  with  admiration. 

"  Miss  llunsden,"  he  said,  "  I  never  in  all  my  life  saw 
a  lady  ride  as  you  rode  to-day.  There  are  not  half  a  dozen 
men  in  Devonshire  who  would  have  faced  those  fences  as 
you  did.  I  sincerely  hope  you  will  frequently  honor  our 
field  by  your  presence  and  matchless  riding." 

Miss  Hunsden  bowed  easily  and  smiled,  showing  a  row 
of  dazzling  teeth. 

And  then  her  father  came  up,  his  soldierly  old  facjc 
aglow. 

"  Harrie,  my  dear,  I  am  proud  of  you!  You  led  us  all 
to-day.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  that  nasty  place  myself, 
and  I  didn't  believe  even  Whirlwind  could  do  it." 

Then  George  Grosvenor  and  Lord  Ernest  and  the  rest  of 
the  men  crowded  around,  and  compliments  poured  in  in  a 
deluge. 

Sir  Everard  held  himself  aloof — disgusted,  nauseated — 
or  so  he  told  himself. 

"  Such  an  unwomanly  exhibition!  Such  a  daring,  mas- 
culine leap!  And  see  how  she  sits  ard  smiles  on  those 
empty-heiwied  fox-hunters,  like  an  Amazonian  queen  in  her 
court!  How  diiTorent  from  Lady  Louise!  And  yet!  good 
heavens!  how  royally  beautiful  she  is!" 


I 


TH  E    r A  J;ON  KT  S    B  K I DK. 


77 


*' Alone,  Kin^slaiid?'  exclaiiiicd  a  voice  at  his  elbow; 
iind  glHiieing  around  lie  .saw  Lord  Carteret.  '*  What  do 
you  think  of  our  pretty  J>i  Vernon?  You  don't  often  see 
a  lady  ride  like  tiiat.  Why  don't  you  pay  your  respeotisi' 
Don't  know  her,  eh?     ('oiue  alone;  I'll  preK  '  ..   'ou. 

(Sir  Everard's  heart  jiave  a  sudden  plun^i;^,  (,  to  unac- 
countably. Without  a  word  he  rode  up  to  heii  'le  gray- 
eyeil  enchantress  held  her  nia^'ic  circle. 

"  liarrie,  my  dear,"  said  the  elderly  norjlc*'.n,  "  1  bring 
a  worshiper  who  hovers  aloof  and  ^azet'  in  tipeeohless  ad- 
miration. Jjct  me  present  my  young  '  ntV,  Sir  Everard 
Kingsland,  Miss  Ilimsden." 

Sir  Kverard  took  olf  his  hat,  and  bent  to  his  saddle-bow. 
The  clear  gray  eyes  and  sparkling,  smile-lit  face  turned 
their  entrancing  brightness  u])on  him,  and  again  his  heart 
went  in  tumultuous  plunges  against  his  ribs. 

"Sir  Everard  Kingsland  I"  cried  Captain  llunsdcn, 
cordially.  "  Son  of  my  old  friend.  Sir  Jasper,  I'll  bo 
sworn  I  My  dear  boy,  how  are  you?  I  knew  your  father 
well.  We  were  at  Kugby  together,  and  sworn  com2)anion8. 
Ilarric,  this  is  the  son  of  my  oldest  friend." 

**  Papa's  friends  are  all  minel" 

The  voice  was  clear  and  sweet  as  the  beaming  eyes.  She 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  frank  grace,  and  Sir  Everard  took 
it,  its  light  touch  thrilling  to  the  core  of  his  heart.  She 
was  only  a  miulcaj),  a  hoideu — a  youthful  Amazon  who 
took  hideous  leaps  and  rode  after  hounds — but,  for  all  tha^., 
she  was  beautiful  as  a  CJreek  goddess,  and — his  time  had 
come. 

Sir  Everard  Kingsland  rode  back  to  Carteret  Park  be- 
side the  Indian  orticer  and  his  daughter  as  a  man  might 
ride  in  a  trance.  Surely  within  an  hour  the  whohs  world 
had  been  changed!  lie  rode  on  air  instead  of  solid  soil, 
and  the  sunshine  of  heaven  was  not  half  so  brilliant  as 
Harriet  liunsden's  smile. 

"  Confess  now.  Sir  Everard,"  she  said,  laughingly  cut- 
ting short  the  compliments  he  tried  to  utter,  "  you  were 
shocked  and  scandalized.  I  saw  it  in  vour  face.  Oh, 
don  t  deny  it,  and  don't  tell  polite  liljs!  1  always  shock 
people,  and  rather  enjoy  it  than  olliorwise." 

"  llarriitl"  her  father  said,  ri'iirovingly.  "  She  is  a 
spoiled  mailcap.  Sir  Everard,  and  I  am  afraid  the  fault  is 
mine.     She  has  been  cverywheic  with  me  in  her  acventeen 


\  f 


78 


THE    BAUONET's    IHUDE. 


>  ! 


!  ; 


yt'jirs  of  lifo — freeziu;,'  amid  tliu  stunvs  of  CaiuuJu  ujiO  giiiJ- 
ing  alivo  under  the  broiling  sun  of  India.  And  tliu  result 
is — what  you  see." 

"  Tho  result  is — perfection!" 

"  Vi\\yi\,"  Alisa  liunsdoii  said,  tin'nin<j;  her  sparkling  fai-e 
to  her  father,  "  for  Sir  J'lverard's  sake,  ])ray  change  Li»u 
subject.  If  you  talk  of  nie,  he  will  feel  iti  duty  Ijoiind  lo 
pay  coiujjliments;  and  really,  after  such  a  fast  run,  it  is  Li  i> 
much  to  ex])cct  of  any  man.  'I'here!  1  see  Lady  JjoiiiiL>c 
across  tho  brook  yonder.  J  will  leave  you  gentlemck  to 
cultivate  one  another.     Allons,  mcssicnrx  !" 

One  ileetiug,  backward  glance  of  the  bewitching  face,  a 
saucy  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  ami  Whirlwind  kad 
leajK'd  across  the  brook  and  ambled  on  beside  the  sober 
charger  of  Lady  Louise. 

"  Kvery  one  has  been  talking  of  your  riding,  Miss  IIonj^- 
don,"  Lady  Louise  said.  "  I  *"u  nearly  beside  mys(4i' 
with  envy.  Jjord  J^irnest  Stratnmore  says  you  are  fehe 
aiost  graceful  equestrienne  he  ever  saw.'' 

*'  Ills  lordshij)  is  very  good.  1  wish  1  eoidd  return  Uie 
eompliment,  but  his  chestnut  balked  shamefully,  aatl 
came  home  dead  beat  I" 

Lord  Ernest  was  within  hearing  distance  of  the  cicar; 
girlish  voice,  but  he  only  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"As  you  are  strong,  be  merciful.  Miss  lEunsden.  Wo 
can't  all  perform  miracles  on  horseback,  you  know.  J 
came  an  awful  cropj)er  at  that  ugly  hedge,  to  be  sure,  aiid 
your  red  horse  went  over  me  like  a  blaze  of  lightiun^'I 
You  owe  me  some  atonement,  and — of  course  you  are  go- 
Mig  to  the  ball  to-night?" 

"  Of  course!     I  hke  balls  even  better  than  hunting." 

"  And  she  dances  better  than  she  rides,"  j)ut  in  her  fa- 
ther, coming  up. 

"  She  is  perfection  in  everything  she  undertakes,  I  a*u 
certain,"  Lord  Ernest  said,  salaaming  profoundly;  "  and 
for  that  atonement  I  speak  of.  Miss  ilunsden,  1  claim  tko 
first  waltz." 

They  rode  together  to  Carteret  Park.  Sir  Evorard  kin\ 
the  privilege  of  assisting  her  to  dismount. 

"You  must  be  fatigued.  Miss  Ilunsden,"  ho  sui«l. 
"  Witk  a  ball  in  prospective,  after  your  hard  gallop*,  1 
should  recommend  a  long  rest." 

Miss  Huusdon  laughed  gayly. 


THK    PARONKT'S    IJRIDE. 


n 


p\ 


■^ 


**  Sir  Evomni,  1  tlon't  know  Iho  moftning  of  thfti  word 
*fati{]jue. '  I  ncvor  wais  linul  in  my  life,  and  J  um  riMidy 
lor  tho  bill!  to-night,  and  a  steL']>lo-(!lmso  to-morrow,  if  you 
like." 

She  tripped  o(T  hh  kIio  Rjwko,  witli  a  niiscliiovons  glujice. 
(She  wanted  to  sliock  him,  and  alio  suceeeiled. 

"  I\)or  girl  I"  lu!  thought,  with  a  littlo  shudder,  as  ho 
siowly  turned  homeward,  "  she  is  really  drewdftd.  Sho 
never  had  a  mother,  I  HU])])ose,  and  wandering  over  the 
world  with  her  father  has  mado  lier  a  perfe<;t  savage. 
Ifow  refreshing  is  Jiady  Louise's  repose  of  manner  in  eom- 
l)ariaon!  IShe  is  truly  to  bo  jutied — so  oxeeedingly  beauti- 
Inl  as  sho  is,  too!" 

.Sir  J^lverard  eertairdy  was  very  sorry  for  that  hoidenisk 
Miss  Ilunsden.  J  To  thought  of  Iut  wlulo  dressing  for  din- 
ner, to  the  utter  exelusioii  of  everything  else,  and  he  talked 
of  her  all  through  that  meal  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
auger." 

S3'billa  Silver,  quite  like  one  of  the  family  already,  made 
the  fourth  at  the  table,  and  listened  with  greedy  ears  and 
eager  blacjk  eyes. 

"  You  ought  to  eall,  mother,"  the  baronet  said,  "  yon 
and  Mildred.  Common  politeness  requires  it.  ('ajitain 
]Tunsden  was  my  father's  most  intinuito  friend,  and  this 
wild  girl  stands  sadly  in  need  of  some  matronly  adviser." 

"  ]  remember  (*aptain  Hunsdon,"  Lady  Kingsland  said, 
thoughtfully;  "and  I  remember  tliis  girl,  too,  when  sho 
was  a  ehild  of  three  or  four  years.  !lTe  was  a  very  hand- 
some man,  I  reeollect,  and  ho  married  away  in  Canada  or 
the  United  States.  There  was  some  mystery  about  that 
marriage — sonu^thing  vague  and  unpleasant — no  one  knew 
what.     She  ouirht  to  be  pretty,  this  daughter. " 

"Pretty!"  Sir  Kverard  exclaimed;  "sho  is  beaidifid  as 
an  angel!  I  never  saw  such  eyes  or  such  a  smile  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life. " 

"Indeed!"  his  mother  said,  coldly — "indeed!  Not 
even  excepting  Lady  Louise's?" 

Sir  Everard  blushed  like  a  school-boy. 

"  Oh,  liady  Louise  is  altogether  ditterent!  I  didn't  mean 
anj  comparison.  Ihit  you  will  see  her  to-night  at  liady 
Carteret's  ball,  and  can  judge  for  yourself.  Slie  is  a  mere 
child — sixteen  or  soventoeii,  1  believe." 


80 


TIIK    I;AI{0XKTS    nilTDE. 


"  AjhI  Jjii'ly  TiOiiiso  is  (lv«'-jm(l-l.\V(Mity,"  aaifl  Mildrod, 
with  jiwfiil  ucciiriKiy. 

*'  Slid  (iocs  not  look  Uv'onLyl"  oxc^liiirinnl  my  liwly, 
sharply.  "  I'liuro  iiro  taw  yoiin^'  UuVnjs  nowadays  Jiulf  so 
(!!i';jjaiiL  and  ^nufoful  as  liudy  Louise" 

Miss  Silvtir's  hir<5o  black  cyus  j,didod  from  ono  to  tho 
oLhor  witli  a  KJnisUir  smilo  in  Llioir  slii?iing  depths,  llor 
Hol't  voi(!o  broke  in  al  tiiis  jiirrin};  jiinetiire  and  sweetly 
turned  the  disturbed  eiirrent  of  eonvorsation,  and  Sir 
KvtMMrd  understood,  and  <:;ave  her  a  j^'rateful  j^Iancio. 

Tlie  yoinig  baroiKft  Jiad  ^'ono  to  nianv  balls  in  his  life- 
tinu!,  but  never  hail  he  been  so  painfully  parti(!ular  before. 
He  drove  Mdward,  his  valet,  (o  the  verge  of  nuidness  with 
his  whims,  and  left  olT  at  last  in  sheer  dosiu-ration  and  al- 
to<^(^ther  tlissatislied  with  the  result. 

•*  f  look  like  a  guy,  1  know,"  ho  muttered,  angrily, 
'*  and  that  ])ert  little  I funsden  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  to 
make  satirical  eomments  on  a  num  if  his  neek-tio  is  awry  or 
his  hair  unbecoming.  Not  that  I  viwo  what  sho  says;  but 
ono  hates  to  feel  he  is  a  hiughing-stock. '^ 

Tho  ball-room  was  brilliant  with  lights,  and  music;,  and 
llowcrs,  and  diamonds,  ami  beautiful  I'actts,  and  magnilieeut 
trtilets  when  the  Kingsland  ])arty  entiircd. 

Lady  (iarteret,  in  velvet  robes,  stood  reeoiving  her 
guests.  Lady  Louise,  with  wliite  a/aleas  in  her  hair  and 
dress,  stootl  stately'  a,nd  graceful,  looking  from  tip  to  too 
what  she  was — the  desoenihmt  of  a  raeo  of  '"  highly- wed, 
highly-fed,  highly-bred  "  aristocrats. 

J  hit  at  neither  of  them  Sir  Kdward  glanced  twice.  TTis 
eyes  wandered  around  and  lighted  at  last  on  a  divinity  in 
a  (doud  of  misty  white,  crowned  with  dark-green  ivy  leaves 
aglitter  with  diamond  drops. 

There  she  stood,  her  white  shoulders  rising  exr|nisitoly 
out  of  the  foamy  lace,  leaning  in  a  careless,  graceful  way 
against  a  marble  column,  holding  her  bou<piet,  and  looking 
Kke  some  lovely  fairy  (jueen.  You  could  not  imagine  her 
the  dashing  huntress  of  the  morning. 

While  he  gazed,  Lord  Ernest  Strathmore  came  up,  said 
something,  atul  whirled  her  oil'  in  the  waltz.  Away  they 
Hew.  fiord  Ernest  waltzed  to  perfection,  and  she — a 
French  woman  or  a  fairy  only  could  float  like  that. 

A  fierce,  jealous  pang  jp'ipt'd  his  heart;  e  second,  and 


THE    BAUOKKT'.S    ItUIDIJ.  81 

thoy  wore  out  of  Hi;;hl.     Sir  lOvoninl  nuiHod  liiiiiaulf  fr«in 


kill      iiv«jii*i<i>         m-j    yi\Ji»i      I  ii*i  I  y       I  xiii^-^i(»ii«i        Kkii^iiiii^i    UIH 

iu;irn:ioius  Htill — "  tako  ouru  of  your  son.     I'm  afruid  ho'a 
gouig  to  full  in  love.  '* 


CTIAPTKU   XI. 

•'  Foil    I.OVK   WILL   HTll^L   ItK    L(>KI)  OP  ALL." 

My  Lmly  Cjirtorot'H  ball  was  a  brilliant  suuocsa,  and, 
fairest  where  all  wore  fair,  llarrie  llunsden  shono  down  all 
oonipotitors.  As  alio  iloatod  down  the  ioiijij  ball-room  on 
the  arm  of  Lord  Ernest,  lij^Iit  as  a  Hwininiini^'-tprite,  a 
hunilreil  admirin-i;  male  eyes  followed,  and  a  hundred  fair 
patriciian  bosoms  throbbed  with  bitterest  envy. 

'*  The  little  llunsden  is  in  full  feather  to-ni<,dit,"  lisped 
(feor<:;e  Grosvenor,  coming  up  with  his  adored  jjady  Loiuso 
on  his  arm.  "  There  is  nothin«^  half  so  beautiful  in  the 
room,  with  ono  exception,"  a  sidelong  bow  to  his  fair  com- 
panion.  "And  only  look  at  Kingsland!  Oh,  he's  done 
for,  to  a  dead  certainty!'* 

Sir  Everard  started  u\)  rather  confusedly,  llo  had  been 
leaning  against  a  pillar,  gazing  after  the  divinity  in  the  ivy 
Of  twn,  with  his  heart  in  iiis  eyes,  and  Lady  Louise  was  the 
liift  person  in  the  universe  he  had  been  thinking  of.  With 
a  guilty  feeling  of  shame  he  turned  and  met  the  icily 
form.d  bow  of  Karl  Carteret's  daughter. 

"  Wy  aro  losing  our  waltz,  Mr.  (rrosvenor,'*  slie  :;i!,id, 
frigidly,  *'  and  we  are  disturbing  Sir  Everard  Knt-'xlunJ. 
The  '  Ciuards'  Waltz  *  is  u  great  deal  too  dol'^htful  to  bo 
missed.*' 

"  I  fancied  the  first  waltz  was  to  be  mine,  I<u«'y  Louise/' 
Sir  Everaril  said,  with  an  awful  sense  of  guilt. 

Jjady  Louise's  blue  eyes  Hashed  lire.  Had  looks  been 
lightning,  that  glance  would  have  slain  him. 

"  With  Miss  llunsden,  perhaps — certainly  not  with  me. 
Come,  Mr.  Grosvenor." 

It  was  the  first  spiteful  shaft  Lady  Louise  had  ever  con- 
descended to  launch,  and  she  bit  her  lip  angrily  an  instant 
uftor,  as  Georgo  whirled  her  away. 

"  idiot  that  I  am,"  she  thought,  "  to  sho\v'him  I  can 


4( 


k' 


I 


HI 


I, 


I 


:'i  f 


^  'J 


1  'I 


83 


THE    BAUONET*S    IJKIDE. 


stoop  to  be  piqued — to  show  him  I  can  be  jealous — to  show 
fciiii  1  caro  for  lilm  like  thisi  lie  will  got  to  fancy  J  lov(; 
him  next,  and  he — ho  has  had  ncillior  eyes  nor  ears  for 
any  one  else  since  he  saw  llarrie  lliinsden  Ihis  morning." 

A  sliar)),  quick  pain  pierced  the  j)roud  breast  of  the 
earl's  daughter,  for  she  did  love  him,  and  she  know  it — as 
much  as  it  was  in  her  lymphatic  nature  to  lovo  at  all. 
Anil,  with  the  knowledge,  her  woman's  anger  rose. 

"  I  will  never  forgive  hi)n — never!"  her  white  teetL 
clincheil.  "  The  dastard — the  traitor — to  play  the  de- 
voted to  me,  and  then  desert  me  at  the  lirst  sight  of  a 
madcap  on  horseback.  I  will  never  stoop  to  say  one  civil 
word  to  him  again." 

Lady  Louise  kept  her  vow.  Sir  Everard,  penitent  and 
rrmorseful,  strove  to  make  Ids  })(!ace  in  vain. 

fjord  Carteret's  daughter  listened  icily,  sent  barbed 
shafts  tipped  with  poison  from  her  tongue  in  I'cply,  danced 
frigidly  with  him  once,  and  steadily  refuseil  tc  danc«} 
again. 

She  let  George  (Jrosveror — jm-r  raothl — Jlutter  into  th<j 
flame  and  singe  his  wings  worse  than  ever.  With  him  she 
went  to  supper,  and  one  of  the  white  azaleas  shone  tri- 
imipliant  in  his  black  ,:(»at,  as  a  reward  of  merit. 

Sir  Kverard  gave  it  u])  at  last  and  went  in  search  of 
Miss  Ilunsden,  and  was  accei)ted  by  that  young  lad)  on 
the  spot  for  a  rodowa. 

"I  thought  you  would  have  asked  me  ages  ago, "  said 
Harrio,  with  delicious  frankness.  "  I  saw  you  wore  a  good 
dancer,  and  that  is  more  than  1  can  say  for  any  other  gen- 
tleman present,  except  Lord  I^rnest.  Ah,  Lord  J'lrnest 
can  waltz!  It  is  the  hoigbt  of  ball-room  bliss  to  be  his 
partner.  Jiut  you  stayed  away  to  quarrel  with  Lady 
Louise,  1  suppose?" 

"  I  have  not  been  quarreling  with  Lady  TiOuise,"  rojdied 
Sir  Everanl,  feeling  guiltily  conscioiw,  though,  all  the 
Bume. 

"No?  It  looked  like  it,  then.  She  snubs  you  in  the 
most  merciless  nuinner,  and  you — oh,  what  a  penitent  face 
you  wore  the  last  time  you  approac-hed  her!  J  thought  she 
was  a  great  deal  too  uplifted  for  llirting,  but  what  do  you 
call  that  with  (leorgo  (Jrosvenor?" 

"  (leorge  (Irosvenor  is  a  very  old  friend.  Here  is  our 
i^owa.  Mm  llunsdcu.     ]^ever  mind  Lady  Louise. " 


4 


THE    TlAKONF/rs    rUtfDE. 


88 


'  said 
good 


IS  our 


His  arm  encircled  her  wuiit,  ami  away  they  ilevi^.  Sir 
Evcrurd  could  dajice  as  well  as  Lord  Eriiost,  and  quite  as 
njauy  ail  miring  eyes  followed  him  and  tho  bright  little 
btllo  of  the  ball.  ^U\  (Jrosvenor  pulled  his  lawny  mus- 
tacii(5  with  inward  (hlight. 

"  Ilandaomo  couple,  eh,  Carteret?"  he  said  to  his  host; 
"it  is  an  evldi-nt  ease  of  sp  ions  tiieru.  Well,  tho  boy  is 
only  two-and-tWL'uty,  and  at  that  age  we  all  lost  our  heads 
easily. " 

Two  angry  led  S[)ots,  (luito  foreign  to  her  usual  com- 
pL'xion,  biirned  on  Lady  Louise's  fair  cheeks.  She  turned 
abruptly  away   ai'.ii  left  llie  gentlemen. 

'*  LiUl'j  llarr.e  is  prettv  enough  to  excuse  an  older  ma« 
losing  his  head,'*  L.jrd  Carteret  ansivered,  looking  aftor 
his  sister  a  littio  uneasily;  "  but  it  would  not  suit  Lady 
Kingsland's  book  at  all.  Tho  Ilunsden  is  poorer  than  a 
church-mouse,  u»id  though  of  one  of  our  best  old-country 
familie;!,  tho  pedigree  bears  no  pripoiiion  to  my  lady > 
ptide.  A  duk;''s  daughter,  in  her  estimation,  would  bt 
noiie  too  good  for  her  darling  S'ju.  See,  she  is  frowinng 
ominously  in  tho  distance  now  I" 

Mv.  '^ro.svenor  ymiled  ratirically. 

"  Slio  is  a  wonderful  woman — my  lady — but  I  fancy  she 
IS  matched  at  last.  If  King.?land  sets  his  heart  on  this 
latest  fancy,  all  the  powers  of  earth  and  Iladej)  will  not 
move  him,  for  verily  ho  ( ome ;  nf  a  d'»ggL\l  and  determined 
race.  l)o  you  recollect  that  little  aiiair  of  Miss  Kingsland 
and  poor  i)ouglas  of  tho  — th?  My  lady  l)ut  a  stop  to 
that,  and  ho  was  shot,  poor  fellow,  before  IJalaklava.  liut 
tho  son  and  lu  ir  is  qtnte  auolhcr  sior}'.  Apropos,  I  must 
at>ii  linle  Mildiiil  to  dunce,     .la'io,  Carteret!'* 

"  Uow  noKcle  s  i;.IIs  the  foot  of  time 
TliiU:  only  treat  is  on  llowers!" 

The  ball  whirled  on— the  hours  went  by  like  bright, 
Bwift  Hashes,  and,  from  the  moment  of  the  redowa,  to  Sir 
Everard  Kingslard  it  was  one  brief,  intoxicating  dream  of 
delirium.  My  Lady  Kingsland 's  matdnal  frowns,  my 
Lady  Lonif-o's  imperial  so  irn — jdl  wtro  forL'otten.  She 
;^as  a  madcap  and  a  h  liden — :i  wil/l,  hare-brained,  fox- 
hunting Ama/i)n — all  that  was  bhocking  and  unwomanly, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  all  that  waj  bright,  beautiful,  en- 
tranoing,  irresistible.      liis  golden -haired  ideal,  with  tho 


,! 


ft     as 


i] 


SI 


THK    r.AUONLT.S     IMIIDE. 


a/.iire  oycs  and  serupliio  piiiilc,  soft  of  voiir,  Miniil  of  nusii- 
ner,  a  cnxss  between  an  aiiL'el  ai:>l  'roiiiivrfoii's  "  JMautI,*' 
was  forgotten,  and  this  gray-cved  oiu^luintress,  robud  in 
white,  crowned  with  ivy,  danuini,'  desperately  the  wiiole 
night  long,  set  brain  and  heart  reeling  in  the  mad  taran- 
tella of  love. 

It  was  over  at  last.  'JMic  gray  and  dismal  dawn  of  the 
November  morning  stole  chilly  throuj^h  the  cnrtaincd 
casements.  A  half-l)]own  rose  from  Miss  Ilunsden's  bon- 
quet  bloomed  in  Sir  Everard's  button-hole,  and  it  was  Sir 
Everurd's  blissful  2)rivi!ege  to  fold  Miss  Jliinsden's  furred 
mantle  around  those  pi-arly  slioulders. 

Other  beauties  might  droo})  and  pale  in  the  ghostly 
morning  light,  but,  after  eight  hoiu's'  consecutive  danciiig. 
Miss  llunsden*s  roses  were  unwilLed.  The  bleak  morning 
bree/o  blew  her  perfumed  hair  across  his  eyes,  as  she  leaned 
on  his  arm  and  he  handed  her  into  the  (carriage. 

"  Wo  shall  expect  to  see  you  at  llunsden  Hall,"  the  In- 
dian ottlcer  said,  heartily.  "  Your  fatht;r's  son.  Sir  Ever- 
ard,  will  ever  bo  a  most  welcome  guest." 

"Yes,'*  said  llarrie,  leaning  forward  co(|uettislily, 
"  come  by  and  by  and  in(iuire  how  my  health  is  after 
dancing  all  night.  Etiijuette  demands  that  much,  and 
I'm  a  great  stickler  for  eti<piette. " 

"  Sir  ]'iVerard  would  never  have  iliscovered  it,  J  am  cer- 
tain, my  dear,  if  you  had  not  told  him." 

Sir  Everard's  blue  eyes  looked  elo<|uently  into  tho  spark- 
ling gray  ones;  his  handsome,  ha[>py  face  was  all  aglow. 

"  A  thousand  thaidvsl  I  shall  only  be  too  delighted  to 
avail  myself  of  both  invitations.  Miss  IFunsdcn,  rimini- 
ber — yon  said  by  and  by,  and  by  and  by  J  shall  come.'' 

Sir  Everard  went  home  to  Kingsland  (Jourt  as  he  never 
had  gone  homo  before.  The  whole  world  was  coin'rur  dc, 
rof'e — the  bleak  November  morning  and  the  desolate  high- 
road— sweeter,  brighter  than  the  Elysian  J^'ields. 

llow  beautifid  she  wasi  how  the  starry  eyes  had  Hashed! 
how  the  rosy  lips  had  smile;ll  Half  the  men  at  the  ball 
were  madly  in  love  with  her,  he  knew;  ami  rJic — she  had 
danced  twice  with  him,  all  night,  for  once  with  any  one 
else. 

It  was  a  very  silent  drive.  Lady  Kingsland  sat  back 
among  her  wra))s  in  displeased  sileiuic;  Mildred  never 
talked  much«  and  the  young  baronet  wa8  lodt  in  bliiuilul 


THE    r.AROXET'R    BRTDK. 


85 


'e» 


1,0  high- 


ecatesy  a  p^reat  deal  too  iliiep  for  words,  lie  could  not 
even  ma^  liis  mother  was  angry — he  never  gave  one  poor 
thought  to  Laily  Louise.  Jmmersod  in  the  .suhiinio  ego- 
tism of  youth  and  love,  the  wliole  world  was  bounded  by 
Harriet  Ilunstlen. 

Sybilla  Silver  was  up  and  waiting  in  Lady  Kingsland's 
dressing-room.  A  bright  fire,  and  a  cheery  cup  of  tea, 
and  a  smiling  face  greeted  her  fagged  ladyshii>  with  pleas- 
ant 8ur])rise. 

"  lieally,  Miss  Silver,'*  she  said,  languiillv,  *'  this  ia 
very  thoughtful  of  yoiu     AVhere  is  my  maid?" 

"Asleep,  my  huly.  I 'ray  let  nu;  fullill  her  duties  this 
once.     I  hojK}  you  enjoyed  the  ball?'* 

"I  never  enjoye<l  a  ball  ley^  in  my  life,"  my  lady  re- 
plied, sharply.  **  l*ray  make  haste — I  am  iri  no  mood  for 
talking." 

Sybilla's  swift,  deft  fingers  disrobed  the  moody  lady, 
looser.ed  the  elal>orato  structure  of  hair,  brushed  it  out, 
arid  pre])are<l  my  lady  for  bed;  and  ail  the  while  she  sat 
frowning  angrily  at  the  fire. 

"  There  wasay<«ung  lady  at  the  ball — a  ^Fiss  Jfiinsden,'* 
she  said,  at  last,  breaking  out  in  8[Mte  of  hcrodl — "  anil 
the  exhibition  she  rajule  was  ]>erfectly  disgraeefid.  Hold, 
odious  little  minx!  Miss  Silver,  if  you  see  my  son  before 
1  get  uj)  to-day,  tell  him  J  wish  ])articularly  for  his  com- 
pany at  break  fasL  " 

"  Ves,  my  lady,'*  Miss  Silver  said,  docilely;  and  my  lady 
dki  not  see  the  smile  that  llickered  and  faded  with  the 
words. 

She  understood  it  all  perfectl}'.  Sir  Rverard  had  broken 
from  the  maternal  apron-string,  had  deserted  tin?  standard 
of  Lady  Jjouise,  and  gone  over  to  this  '*  bold,  odious  " 
Miss  Ilunsden. 

Sybilla  dutifully  delivered  the  message  the  first  time  she 
met  the  baronet.  A  groom  was  lioidiiig  Sir  (lalahad, 
and  his  master  was  just  vaulting  into  the  saldle.  lie 
turned  away  imjmtiently  from  the  dar!.  fnce  and  sweit 
voice. 

"  It  is  imrjoasible  this  morning,"  ho  said,  sharply. 
**  Tell  Lady  King^sland  1  ahall  have  the  ])k'asure  of  meet- 
ing her  at  dinner." 

He  rotle  away  a«»  he  sjMike,  \siLh  the  sudden  conseious- 
ucss  that  it  was  the  tifit  time  he  tmd  that  devoted  mother 


' 


, 

I 

I 
1 

1} 

i, 

fi    ^ 

I''  5  1-1 


i- 


in  K 


I 


ill     ! 

u 


M 


THK    lUUONEX'S    lUUDE. 


Thinking  of  licv,  ho  thought-,  of  h»r 


kad  oyer  clashed, 
favorite. 

"  She  wants  to  read  nie  a  firadn.  T  siip^ioso,  about  her 
pet,  Latly  Jj()iiis(i,"  ho  snid  to  hiuifii^lf,  nUhiT  sullcudy. 
"  Thijy  would  batljj:er  xiie  uiLo  ni  a  fry  lug  her  ii'  they  couid. 
J  novcr  cari'd  two  straws  for  the  daiPihlur  of  J'larl  Carteret; 
she  is  frightfully /'f^«••^'(V,  and  ehe'j  three  years  older  thaa 
1  am.     1  aru  glad  I  did  not  commit  mysell'  irrevocably  to 

i)lease  my  mother — a  man  bhuuid  marry  only  to  please 
limsolf. " 

8ir  Everard  readied  llunsdon  Hall  in  time  for  Iniuiheoa. 
The  old  ])laco  looked  deserted  and  ruined.  The  half-pay 
Indian  ollieer's  poverty  was  visible  everywhere — in  the 
time-worn  I'luuiture,  the  neglected  grounds,  the  empty 
stabJe^,  and  the  meager  stal!  of  old-time  servants.  J  Jut 
the  wealtiiy  baronet  surveyed  tha  imi)overisliod  scene  with 
a  look  of  almost  exultation. 

"  Captain  lliuisden  is  so  poor  that  he  will  be  ghwi  to 
marry  his  daughter  to  the  lirst  rich  man  who  asks  her. 
The  llunsden  estate  is  strictly  entailed  to  the  next  male 
lieir;  he  has  only  his  pay,  and  she  will  be  left  literally  a 
beggar  at  his  death." 

llis  eyes  Hashed  triumphantly  at  the  thought.  ITarrie 
ilunsden  stood  in  the  Hun.shine  on  the  lawn,  with  half  a 
eoore  of  dogs,  big  and  little,  boun(';ing  around  her,  more 
lovely,  it  seemed  to  the  infatuated  young  baronet,  in  hoi 
simple  home-dress,  than  ever.  Xo  trace  of  yesterday's 
fatiguing  hunt,  or  last  night's  fatiguing  dancing,  was  visi- 
ble in  that  radiant  face. 

Ihit  just  at  that  instant  Captain  Ilunsden  advanced  to 
me"*,  him,  with  JiOrd  Krnest  Strathmore  by  his  side. 

■'  What  brings  that  idiot  here?"'  Sir  Everard  thought. 
Lis  f;\co  ilarkenii^g.  "  ilow  absurdly  early  he  must  have 
ridden  over!" 

iUi  turned  to  Miss  Ilunsden  and  uttered  the  polite  com- 
litonplnce  pr(;5  er  for  the  occasion,  feeling  more  at  a  loss 
ill  woi'h  llian  ever  before  in  his  life. 

"  I  t'jid  you  I  never  was  fatigued,'*  the  young  lady  said, 
playirg  with  her  dogs,  and  sublimely  at  her  ease.  "  I  am 
ready  for  a  second  hunt  to-day,  and  a  ball  to-night,  and  a 
picnic  the  day  after.  I  shoulil  have  been  a  boy.  It's  per- 
leotl/  absurd,  my  being  a  ndioulous  ^irl,  when  I  feel  as  it 


i 


i 


THH    BAUONKT  8    BRIDE. 


87 


1  Qould  had  a  forlorn  hope,  or,  like  Alexaudor,  conquer  a 
world.     Comt'  to  liiiiolieon. '* 

"  CoiKjuor  u  worlil — como  to  luuohoon?  A  pretty  brace 
•f  siibjoctsi"  siiid  lior  rather. 

"31i8B  iruriHileii  is  fjiiito  ciipable  of  conquering  a  world 
withimb  li;i\iiig  becii  buni  unyibiiig  so  horrid  as  a  boy/* 
Haid  Lv)rd  JOriiest-.  '*  Thcie  iirc  bloodless  conquests,  whero- 
io  the  conquerors  of  the  world  are  coiKjuered  theniselvea." 

The  baronet  scowled.  Miss  Hinisden  retorted  saucily. 
She  and  Lord  Ernest  ke])t  u[)  a  brilliant  wordy  war. 

lie  sat  like  a  silunt  fool— like  an  imbecile,  ho  said  to 
himself,  <;lowering  malignantly.  Hi^  was  madly  in  love, 
and  he  was  furiously  jealous.  Vi  hat  business  had  thin 
gingor-whiskercd  young  lordling  interloping  here?  And 
how  disgusLingly  self-assured  and  at  home  he  was!  lie 
tried  to  talk  to  the  ca[)tain,  but  it  was  a  miserable  failure, 
ke  knew,  with  his  ears  strained  listeniiig  to  them. 

It  was  a  relief  when  a  servant  entered  with  the  mail- 
bag. 

"  The  mail  reaches  us  late,*'  Captain  llunsden  said,  as 
he  openeil  it.     "  1  like  my  letters  with  my  breakfast.'* 

"  Any  for  me,  papa?**  Harriot  asked,  '  3aking  off  in 
her  llirtation. 

"  One — from   your   governess    in  Par 
half  a  dozen  for  me.'* 

He  glanced  carelessly  at  the  supersci 
them  dowji.     IJut  as  he  took  the  last  he 
his  face  turnetl  livid;  he  stared  at  it    --= 
into  a  death's-head  in  his  hand. 

I'he  two  young  men  looked  at  him  aghast.  W.b  daugh- 
ter rose  up,  vcrv  pale. 

"Oh,  papa-" 

8he  stopped  in  a  sort  of  breathless  affright. 

Captain  llunsden  rose  up.  He  made  no  apology.  Ho 
walked  to  a  window  and  tore  open  his  1(  'ter  with  passion- 
ate haste. 

His  daughter  still  stood — pale,  breathless. 

Suddejily,  with  a  hoitrso,  dreadful  cry,  he  flung  the  let- 
ter from  him,  staggtred  blindly,  and  full  down  in  a  fit. 

A  girl'H  shrill  scream  })ierced  the  air.  ^She  sprung  for- 
ivard,  ilirust  the  leUer  into  her  bosom,  kn^^dt  besido  he? 
lather,  and  lifted  hiis  huud.     His  face  was  dark  purple, 


1  think — and 

ions  as  he  laid 

tored  a  low  cry; 

1  it  had  turned 


M 


[■* 


Hi 


' 


N^ 


88 


TiiK   i;.\i:()NIi;t  s   i'.kidk. 


tho  blood  oozod  in  trickling  stroanis  from  Ills  moulh  and 
nosfcrils. 

All  was  confusion.  They  bore  him  to  liis  room;  a  serv- 
ant was  dii^nutched  in  mad  hasto  for  a  doctor.  Jfarriot 
bent  over  him,  white  as  death.  Tho  two  young  men 
waited,  i)iile,  alarmed,  confounded. 

It  was  an  hour  ix'fore  tho  doctor  came — another  beforo 
he  loft  the  sick  man's  room.  As  he  dcparteil,  Harriot 
U  unsden  gliiled  into  the  apartment  where  the  young  men 
waited,  white  aj  a  spirit. 

"  Jle  is  out  of  danger;  ho  is  asleej).  Pray  leave  us  now. 
To-ijiorrow  ho  will  be  hiniiself  a;.''ain. " 

Jt  was  (juite  evident  that  she  was  used  to  these  attacks. 
The  young  men  bowed  respectfully  and  departed;  saluted 
each  oth'  -  coldly,  as  rivals  do  salute,  and  rode  oil  in  oppo- 
site directions. 

Sir  Evnard  was  in  little  humor,  as  ho  went  slowly  and 
moodily  homeward,  for  his  mother's  lecture,  lie  was 
insanely  jealous  of  Lord  Ernest,  and  ho  was  amazed  and 
confounded  \v  tho  mystery  of  the  letter. 

"  There  is  some  secret  in  Captain  II unsden 's  life,"  ho 
thought,  "  and  his  daughter  shares  it.  Some  secret,  per- 
haps, of  shame  and  disgrace — some  bar  siidster  in  their 
shield;  anu,  good  heavensi  I  am  mad  enough  to  love  her 
—  1,  a  Kingsland,  of  Kiiigsland,  whoso  name  and  escutcheon 
are  without  a  blot!  What  do  I  know  of  her  antecedents 
or  his?  My  mother  spoke  of  some  mystery  in  his  ])a8t 
life;  and  there  is  a  look  of  settled  gloom  in  his  fiice  that 
nothing  seems  able  to  remove.  Lord  Ernest  Strathmorc, 
too — he  must  come  to  complicate  matters.  And  he  is  in- 
iatuated  with  the  girl — any  one  can  see  that.  She  is  tho 
most  glorious  creature  the  sun  shines  on;  and  if  I  don't 
ask  her  to  be  my  wife,  she  will  bo  my  Lady  Strathmore 
before  the  moon  wanes!" 


CHAPTER  XH. 


MISS  nUNSDEN   SAYS 


<( 


NO. 


j> 


Sir  Evrrahd  found  his  motlun*  primed  and  loaded;  but 
she  nursed  her  wrath  throughout  dirmor,  and  it  was  not 
until  they  were  in  the  drawing-room  uloiie  that  she  \vi;nt 
oil'.    He  was  so  moodily  didraU  all  tlij-ough  tho  meal  that 


THE    J'.AIiONF.T'S    I5RIDE. 


89 


he  never  saw  the  volcano  smoldering,  and  the  Vesuvian 
eruption  tooic  him  altogether  by  surprise.  Sybilla  Silver 
saw  the  coming  storm,  and  pricked  up  her  ears  in  delight- 
ful expectation  of  a  rousing  scene;  and  quiet  Mildred  saw 
it,  and  shrunk  sensitively.  lUit  both  were  spared  the 
*•  tempest  in  a  tea-pot.'*  The  hail-storm  of  angry  words 
clattered  about  the  baronet's  ears  alone. 

"  Your  conduct  has  been  disgraceful!"  Laily  Kingsland 
piissionately  cried — "  unworthy  of  a  man  of  honorl  You 
])jiy  Ludy  Louise  every  attention;  you  make  love  to  her  in 
the  most  proiumcc  manner,  and  at  the  eleventh  hour  you 
desert  her  for  this  forward  little  barbarian." 

(Sir  Evorard  opened  his  large,  blr^-,  Saxon  eyes  in  cool 
surprise. 

"  NFy  dear  mother,  you  mistake,"  he  sasd,  with  jjerfect 
Suva  froid.     "  Lady  Louise  made  love  to  me  I" 

''  kverard!" 

Her  voice  absolutely  choked  with  rage. 

"  It  sounds  conceited  and  fop])ish,  I  know,'*  pursued 
the  young  gentleman;  '*  but  you  force  me  to  it  in  self-de- 
fense. I  never  made  love  to  Lady  Louise,  as  Lady  Louise 
can  tell  you,  if  you  choose  to  ask.  ** 

"  You  never  asked  her  in  so  many  words,  perhaps,  to 
be  your  wife.  Short  of  that,  you  have  left  nothing  un- 
done.** 

Sir  Everard  thought  of  the  dinner-party,  of  the  moonlit 
balcony,  of  (reorge  Grosvenor,  and  was  guiltily  silent. 

'*  Providence  must  have  sent  him,**  he  thought,  "  to 
save  me  in  the  last  supremo  moment.  Pledged  to  Lady 
Louise,  and  madly  in  love  with  Harriet  Hunsden,  1  should 
blow  out  my  brains  before  sunset!" 

"  You  are  silent,"  pursued  his  mother.  "  Your  guilty 
conscience  will  not  let  you  answer.  You  told  me  yourself, 
only  two  days  ago,  that  but  for  George  Grosvenor  you 
would  have  asked  her  to  be  your  wife.'* 

"  Quile  true,"  responded  hrr  son;  "but  who  knows 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth?  Two  days  ago  I  was  willing 
to  luarry  Lady  Louise — to  ask  her,  at  least.  Now,  not  all 
the  wealth  of  the  Indies,  not  the  crown  of  the  world,  coidd 
teni|)t  me." 

"  (iood  heavens!*'  cried  my  lady,  goade<l  to  the  end  of 
her  i):itioiic(^;  "  only  hear  him!  Do  you  mean  to  ti-ll  me, 
you  absiu'd,  mad-headed  boy,  that  in  one  day  you  have 


1 1 


'•  I 


THE    nARONET\S    BRIDE. 


!     •'. 


It. 


I. '  il 


fallen  hopelofsly  in  love  with  this  hare-braiimi,  nastiHine 
Harriet  Jiunsdon?" 

Sir  J']vorar(l's  fair  faco  niishcd  angry  red. 

'*  I  tell  you  notliing  of  tho  sort,  niadamo;  the  iiifurenoo 
iR  your  own.  Uut  thid  I  will  say — I  would  rather  marry 
Harriet  Jlunsden  than  any  other  woman  under  hcavonl 
She  may  bo  wild,  as  you  say — hani-braiiied,  pi'rhajis  (what- 
OTor  that  means) — but  then  3'ou  will  reeolleut  that  she  is 
but  seventeen.  When  «ho  is  livo-and-twenty,  she  may  be 
tiH  sedate  even  as  your  model  and  favorite.  If  1  prefer  a 
girl  of  seventeen  to  a  matur(*  wonuin  of  twi-ntv-dve,  eTon 
vou  can  hardlv  blame  me.  Tiot  Liidv  Jjoiuse  take  (Jeorge 
Grosvenor.  He  is  in  love  with  liiw,  which  1  nuver  was; 
and  he  has  an  carl's  coronet  in  piospectivo,  which  1  have 
not.  As  for  me,  I  have  doiio  with  tin's  subject  at  once  and 
forever.  Even  to  you,  my  mother,  J  can  not  delegate  my 
choice  of  a  wife.'* 

"I  will  never  receive  Harriet  Hunsdon!"  Lady  Kings- 
land  passionately  cried. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  never  have  the  opportunity.  She 
may  prefer  to  became  mistress  of  Strath uiore  Castle. 
Jjord  Ernest  is  her  mo:-'t  devoted  adorer.  1  have  not  asked 
her  yet.  The  chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  she  will  re- 
fase  when  I  do." 

His  mother  laughed  scornfully,  but  her  eyes  were  abliis«. 

"You  mean  to  ask  her,  then?" 

"  Most  assin-edly." 

She  laughed  again — a  bitter,  mirthless  laugh. 

"  We  go  fast,  my  friend  I  Aiul  you  have  hardly  knowu 
this  divinity  four-and-twenty  hours.'* 

"  Love  is  not  a  plant  of  slow  growtli.  liike  Jonah's 
gourtl,  it  springs  uj),  fully  nuitured,  in  an  hour." 

'■'  Does  it?  My  sou  is  better  versed  in  amatory  floricult- 
ure than  1  am.  But  before  you  ask  Miss  Huusden  to  be- 
come Lady  Kingslaiid,  had  you  not  better  incjuirc  who  her 
mother  was?" 

The  baronet  thought  of  tho  letter,  and  turned  very  pale. 

"  Her  mother?  do  not  understand.  What  of  her 
mother?" 

"  Only  this" — ^  Kingsland  arose  as  she  spoke,  lier 
face  de.  J  '  '  whit'  . .  pale  eyes  glittering — "  the  mother 
wamyi:  .tnd  a  mystery.  Keport  says  Captain  ilunsden 
vfas    mar  ied    in   America — uc>    one    knows  where — viod 


THE    BAItONET'8    BlUDK. 


91 


America  is  a  wMe  jiluce.  No  ono  ever  saw  the  wifo;  no 
one  over  lioaril  ^rist-  Ilimsleii  ppiak  of  her  niothor;  no  one 
evor  hcaril  of  that  niothiT's  dcatli.  I  k'avi  {Sir  Kvorartl 
Kingslund  to  draw  liitj  own  inftroiuu's.'* 

Slie  swept  from  the  room  with  u  nii^lil.y  i  nstlo  of  silk. 
A  dark  ligure  croucliin«i  on  tlu'  mir,  wilii  it<:  ear  to  the 
kcy-holo,  ImrvU  had  tinio  to  whisk  bihind  a  tall  Indian 
cabinet  as  thi'  door  o])i  iied. 

It  was  Miss  Sybilhi  Silver,  who  was  ah'eady  asserting  her 
prontj^alive  as  aaialeur  lady's-inaid. 

iMy  hidy  shut  herself  u[)  in  her  own  rooni  for  tlie  ro- 
niaiiider  of  the  evening,  too  anjj^ry  and  mortiJicd  for  wonln 
to  tell.  Jt  was  the  lirst  (jiiariel  hlu!  a?id  her  idolized  Hon 
ever  iiud,  and  thetlisup})ointmenL  of  all  jor  ambitious  liopes 
left  her  miserable  enoijpii. 

J»nt  scarcely  so  miserable  as  Sir  l-iVeiaiil.  To  be  hoj)e- 
lessly  in  love  on  sneh  thort  notice  was  bad  eiioii;.di;  to  have 
the  dread  of  a  rejte'ion  htitiLdoij  over  hiiu  was  worse;  lujt 
to  have  this  dark  myo'.cry  k)o:nini;  horriljly  iii  the  horizon 
wan  worst  of  all. 

ITis  mother's  insinuations  alone  would  not.  have  dislurb- 
ed  him;  but  those  in.-inuatious,  taken  in  uui>o!i  with  Cap- 
tain Ihuisden's  mysterious  illness  of  the  morniiig,  drove 
him  nearly  wild. 

"And  I  dare  not  even  nhk,"  ho  thought,  "  or  set  my 
doubts  at  rest.  Any  inf(M:ry  from  nu',  b;  fore  })n)pnsin<^% 
would  be  im}»ertinent;  aud  after  proposin;,^  they  woulil  be 
too  late.  Ihit  one  thinir  I  am  certain  of- -if  1  lose  llarrio 
llunsden,  I  shall  go  mall'* 

Of  course  thia  angry  ruflling  of  love's  current  at  the 
very  outset  only  strengthenod  the  stream.  Oppitsition  left 
the  young  man  tenfold  more  d(>ggedly  in  love  than  ever, 
and  he  strode  uj>  and  down  the  drawing-room  like  a  nielo' 
<lramalic  hero,  grinding  his  teeth  and  glaring  at  vacancy, 
and  longing  with  a  fi'-ree  impntcn(.-y  to  run  away  wilh 
llarrio  Jluns'icn  to-nurrow,  and  never  aak  a  question 
about  her  mother,  and  never  see  his  own  again. 

While  he  tore  up  and  down  like  a  caged  tiger,  the  door 
softly  opened  and  his  siiter  lot.ked  in. 

"Alone,  Kverard?"  she  said,  timidly.  "I  thought 
mamma  was  with  you. '* 

**  Mamma  has  just  gon«  to  her  rocm  in  a  blessed  tcui 


ti 


)  * 


■ 


93 


THE    nARONKT  S    BR  TDK. 


per,"  answcM'od  lior  IsroMuM',  s;ivjij[j(!ly.     "  Como  in,  MiHy, 
iiiiil  \\v\\)  riio  in  this  l)f)i."il»l(!  scni|H<,  iC  you  can." 

"  Js  it  Honu'tiiiii;^' sil)!)nt — Miss  Ifiinstle!i?"  liesitaLingly. 
"  I  tlionglit  Jiiamiuii  looked  disjileastul  at  iliimer. " 

"  l)is))li'as((ll"  exclaimed  tlio  y'»iMi<^  man,  with  a  short 
liiii<>li;  •*  that  isJ  a  iiiihl  way  of  jmttiiijf  it.     Manirua  i.s  in- 
oliiii'd  to  phvy  tlio  (Jrand  Mo;4ul  in  my  case  us  slie  did  witli 
voii  and  poor  Froil  Doughis. " 
'    "  Oh,  bi-'.thor!" 

Mildred  Kingsland  put  out  both  hands  and  shrunk  as  if 
liu  had  struck  hur. 

"  Forgivo  mo,  Milly.  I'm  a  brute  and  you^ro  an  angol, 
if  there  ever  was  one  on  oarLJiI  Jiut  I'vo  been  hectored 
and  lectured,  and  badgered  and  bothered  until  I'm  fairly 
beside  mysidf.  She  wants  me  to  marry  Ijady  Jiouisc,  and 
J  won't  marry  Lady  Louise  if  she  was  the  last  woman 
lilive.     Milly,  who  was  ]\Iiss  Hunsiiun's  mother?" 

The  murder  was  out.  JIo  stood  still,  glaring  liorco  iu- 
terrogation  at  his  sister. 

"  Jfer  mother!"'  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  T  was  (piito  a 
little  girl  wluiu  ('jij)tai;i  ilunsden  was  hero  before,  and 
Ilarrie  was  a  j)retty  little  curly-haired  fniry  of  three  years. 
I  remember  her  so  well.  Captain  Iluiisden  dined  liero 
ont.e  or  twice,  and  I  recollect  perfectly  how  gloomy  and 
iriorose  his  nuuiner  was.  I  was  quite  frightened  at  him. 
You  wore  at  Kton  then,  you  know." 

"  1  knowl"  impatient!}'.  "  I  wish  to  Heaven  1  had  not 
been.  ]5oy  as  1  was,  I  should  luive  learned  something. 
J)id  you  never  hear  the  cause  of  the  captain's  abnormal 
gloonj?'^ 

"  No;  papa  and  mamma  knew  nothing,  and  C'aptaia 
llunsden  ke])t  his  own  secrets.  They  had  hoard  of  his 
marriage  some  foiu'  or  live  years  before — a  low  marriage, 
it  was  rumored — an  actress,  or  something  etpially  objec- 
tionable. Little  Ilarrie  knew  nothing — at  three  years  ic 
was  hardly  likely;  but  she  never  prattled  of  her  mother  as 
child  1  en  of  that  ago  usually  do.  There  is  some  mystery 
tibotit  Captain  llunsden 's  wife,  Everaril,  and — pardon  mo 
-—if  you  like  Miss  Ilunsdeu,  you  ought  to  have  it  cleared 

Kverard  laughed —a  liarsli,  strident  laugli. 
"  If  I  like  Miss  ilunxlen,  my  dear  little  non-committal 
Milly.     Am  1  to  go  to  llunsden  Hull  and  say  to  iia  mas- 


Tin:     HAIiONKl's     ItUIDK. 


U3 


not 


tor,  *  Tiook  lu'i'o,  (.'jiptuiii  UtinhdiMi,  j;mvo  nio  proofs  o'  y<»nr 
maniu^L' — l''ll  inu  all  about  your  luyj'U'rioM.s  wife  You 
Imvo  a  vni'y  liaiiiLsKino,  hi^Mi-spiritcil  diiiij^htcr,  but  brforo 
I  <!ominiL  inyrit'lf  by  fiillin-.j  iu  Jovo  wiih  Imr,  I  want  to 
mako  8uro  thiTO  was  no  tarni-sb  o!i  fbo  bitu  Mrs.  Huiih- 
(Uh'h  \vi'tMiii;^'-ring. '  Caj'laiu  IlaroKl  lluiisdcii  is  a  prouil 
man.      How  do  you  tbiiik  bo  will  like  Lbo  htylu  of  llialj"' 

Mildred  «lut»d  sih^il,,  b/okiii^j;  ilisl-resaed. 

"  1  wisii  I  liad  nianiod  Lady  Jiouiso  u  month  n^o,  and 
ir(»no  out  of  ibu  countryl"  l)o  burt^t  out,  vcbonusnt.lv.  "  1 
sv'ish  J  bail  noviM-  soon  tbis  girl.  Slu;  is  nviirylbing  tliat  is 
objriilionabk' — a  balf-civilized  nuid(:a[) — shrouded  in  niys- 
titcy  and  poverty — daniu;d  over  tho  world  in  a  bajrgJiK^!- 
Wii^'on.  I  bavu  <|uarri'k'd  with  my  molher  for  tiiu  Jirst 
tiuif  (*n  lur  aiH.'oMiil..  Jhit  I  lovu  her — I  lovo  bur  witb  all 
my  lu a.'t — and  T  shall  go  mad  or  shout  myself  if  1  don't 
make  lu'i-  my  wiftfl" 

lie  llunu  bimvidf  impetuously,  Taeo  downward,  on  tbo 
sofa.  Mildreil  stood  pallid  and  seared  in  the  miiklle  (»f  the 
lloDr,  in  tbe  extnsmity  of  helpless  distress.  Oneu  he  lifted 
bis  lunid  and  looked  at  her. 

"  (io  away,  Milly!"  ho  auid,  hoarsely.  "  I'm  a  savfti^u 
t(^  fri,i;;bten  you  so!     Leave  me;  I  shall  be  better  alone." 

And  iMiMrcd,  not  knowing  in  the  lea^t  what  else  to  do, 
went. 

iNext.  morning,  liours  before  Lady  Kingsland  was  out  of 
bed,  iiady  King-land's  sou  was  galloping  over  the  bree/y 
iiills  and  golden  downs.  An  hour's  bard  run,  and  ho 
made  straight  for  ilimsden  Hall.  The  hand  ol  fate  drove 
him  impetuously  on,  and  he  was  powerless  to  resist. 

Miss  Jfunsden  was  taking  a  constitutional  up  and  down 
the  terrace  overlooking  tho  sea,  witb  thn-e  big  dugs.  She 
turned  round  at  Sir  Everard's  approaeh  and  greeted  him 
cpiito  eordially.  She  was  rather  pale,  but  perfeetly  com- 
I)Osed. 

"  Pa])a  is  SO  much  better  this  morning,"  she  said, 
'*  that  lie  is  coming  down  to  breakfast;,  lie  is  subject  to 
these  attacks,  ajid  they  never  last  long.  Any  exciting 
news  overthrows  him  altogetber.' ' 

"  That  letter  contained  exciting  news,  then?"  Sir  Ever- 
ard  eoidd  not  help  saying. 

"  1  presume  so — I  diil  not  ^::iv]  it.  lli>w  placid  tbe  sea 
looks  this  morning,  aglitter  m  the  sunligbi.     And  yet  1 


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HiotDgraphic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)872-4503 


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94 


THE    BAllOKET  S    BRIDE. 


have  been  in  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic  when  the  waves 
ia,n  mountains  high. " 

But  the  moody  young  baronet  was  not  going  to  talk  ot 
the  sea. 

"  You  are  quite  a  heroine,  Miss  Ilunsden,  and  a  won- 
derful traveler  for  a  seventeen-year-old  young  lady.  You 
see,  1  know  your  age;  but  at  ^Jeveiiteen  a  young  lady  does 
not  mind,  I  believe.  How  long  have  you  been  in  England 
this  time?" 

lie  spoke  with  careless  adroitness;  Miss  Ilunsden  an- 
swered, frankly  enough: 

"  Five  months.  You  were  abroad,  I  think,  at  the 
time.'' 

"  Yes.  And  now  you  have  come  for  good,  I  hope — as 
if  Miss  Hunsdcn  could  come  for  anything  else.'' 

"It  all  depends  on  papa's  health,"  replied  Harriet, 
quietly  ignoring  the  compliment.  "  I  should  like  to  stay, 
I  confess.     I  ain  very,  very  fond  of  England." 

"Of  course — as  you  should  be  of  your  native  place." 
He  was  firing  nearer  the  target. 

"  England  is  not  my  native  place,"  said  Harriet,  calm- 
ly.    "  I  was  born  ai;  Gibraltar." 

"  At  Gibraltar!  You  surprise  me.  Of  course  your 
mother  was  not  a  native  of  Gibraltar?" 

His  heart  throbbed  fast.  Was  he  treading  on  forbidden 
ground?  Would  the  great  gray  eves  lla^li  forked  lightning 
as  he  knew  they  could  Hash?  No;  Miss  Hunsden  heard 
the  adroit  question  and  made  no  sign. 

"  Of  course  not.  My  mother  was  an  American — born 
and  bred  and  married  in  New  York." 

Here  was  an  explicit  statement.  His  pulses  stood  still  a 
moment,  and  then  went  on  fast  and  furious. 

"  1  suppose  you  scarcely  remember  her?" 

"  Scarcely,"  the  young  lady  repeated,  dryly;  "  sinoe  I 
never  saw  her." 

"Indeed!    She  died  then— " 

"At  my  birth— yes.  And  now.  Sir  Everard  " — the 
brijrht,  clear  eyes  Hashed  suddenly  full  upon  him — "  is  the 
catechism  almost  at  an  end?" 

He  absolutely  recoiled.  If  ever  guilt  was  written  on  a 
human  face,  it  was  readily  written  on  his. 

"  Ah!"  Miss  Hunsilen  said,  scornfully,  "  you  thought  I 
couldn't  find  you  out—you  thought  I  couldn't  see  your 


G  waves 

talk  ot 

a  won- 
.  You 
,dy  does 
i^Dglaud 

len  an- 

at  the 

ope — as 

Harriet, 
to  stay, 

place. " 

t,  calm- 

se  your 

)rbiddeii 
glitning 
n  heard 

a — born 

)d  still  a 

'  sinoe  I 


I  "—the 
-"  is  the 

en  on  a 

liought  1 
see  yout 


THE    BAKONET^S    BRIDE. 


05 


drift.  Have  a  better  opiuion  of  my  fyowers  of  penetration 
next  time,  Sir  Everard.  My  poor  ftiilier,  impoverished  in 
purse,  broken  in  health,  sensitive  iji  spirit,  cliooses  to  hide 
his  wounds — chooses  not  to  wear  his  hetirt  on  liis  sleeve  for 
the  Devonshire  daws  to  peck  at — chooses  never  to  speuk  of 
his  lost  wife — and,  lo!  all  the  gossips  of  the  country  are 
agape  for  the  news.  She  was  an  actress,  was  she  not,  Sir 
Everard?  And  when  I  ride  across  the  country,  at  the  heels 
of  the  hounds,  it  is  only  tlie  spangles,  and  glitter,  and  the- 
ater glare  breaking  out  again.  1  could  despise  it  in  others, 
but  I  did  think  better  things  of  the  son  of  my  father's 
oldest  friend!     Good-morning,  Sir  Everard." 

She  turned  proudly  away.  In  that  instant,  as  she  tow- 
ered above  him,  superb  in  her  beauty  and  her  pride,  all 
other  earthly  considerations  were  swept  away  like  cobwebs. 
If  the  world  had  been  his,  he  would  have  laid  it  at  her 
regal  feet. 

"  Stay,  Harriet — Miss  Hunsden!  Stop — for  pity's  sake, 
stop  and  hear  me!  I  have  been  presuming — impertinent. 
I  have  deserved  your  rebuke." 

"  You  have,"  she  said,  haughtily. 

"  But  1  asked  those  questions  because  the  nameless  in- 
sinuations I  heard  drove  me  mad — because  1  love  you,  I 
worship  you,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. " 

Like  an  impetuous  torrent  the  words  burst  out.  He 
actually  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her,  in  the  boy- 
ish abandon  of  his  love  and  delirium. 

"  My  beautiful,  queenly,  glorious  Harriet!  I  love  you 
as  man  never  loved  woman  before!" 

Miss  Hunsden  stood  aghast,  staring,  absolutely  con- 
founded. The  passionate  words  rained  down  upon  her  in 
a  stunning  shower. 

For  one  instant  she  stood  thus;  then  all  was  forgotten  in 
her  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  She  leaned  agamat  a  tree,  and 
set  up  a  shout  of  laughter  long  and  clear. 

*'  Oh,  good  gracious!"  cried  Miss  Hunsden,  as  soon  as 
she  was  able  to  speak;  "  who  ever  head  the  like  of  this? 
Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  get  up.  I  forgiv^e  you  everything 
for  this  superhuman  joke.  I  haven't  had  such  a  laugh 
for  a  month.  Eor  go -duess'  sake  get  up,  and  don't  be  a 
goose!" 

The  young  baronet  sprung  to  his  feet,  furious  with 
mortification  and  rage. 


I 


I 


!;!, 


1.'!  f 


I    . 


t     ■ ; 


i  I 


?  I 


96  THE  hakonet'r  brtde. 

*'  Miss  Hunsden— *' 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  Harriet,  in  a  second  paroxysm. 
"  Don't  maice  me  ruj)ture  an  artery.  Love  me? — worship 
me?  Why,  yon  ridiculous  thing!  you  haven't  known  me 
two  days  altogether!" 

He  turned  away  without  speaking  a  word.  A  choking 
sensation  rose  up  in  his  throat,  for,  poor  fellow!  he  had 
been  terribly  in  earnest. 

"  And  then  you're  engaged  to  Lady  Louise!  Every  one 
says  so,  and  I  am  sure  it  looks  like  it." 

"  I  am  not  engaged  to  Lady  Louise." 

Ke  said  those  words  huskily,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

Miss  Hunsden  tried  to  look  grave,  but  her  mouth 
twitched.  The  sense  of  the  ludicrous  overcame  her  sense 
of  decorum,  and  again  she  laughed  until  the  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  shall  die!"  in  a  faint  whisper.  "  My  sides 
ache.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir  Everard;  but  inde(}(l  1  can 
not  help  it.     It  is  so  funny!" 

"  So  I  perceive.     Good-morning,  Miss  Hunsden." 

'*  And  now  you  are  angry.  Why,  Sir  Everard!"  catch- 
ing for  the  first  time  a  glimpse  of  his  deathly  white  face, 
"1  didn't  think  you  felt  like  this.  Oh!  1  beg  your  par- 
don with  all  my  heart  for  laughing.  I  believe  I  should 
laugh  on  the  scaffold.  It's  dreadfully  vulgar,  but  it  was 
born  with  me,  I'm  afraid.  Did  I  gallop  right  into  your 
heart's  best  aifections  at  the  fox-hunt?  Why,  I  thought  1 
shocked  you  dreadfully.  I  know  1  tried  to.  Won't  you 
shake  hands.  Sir  Everard,  and  part  friends?" 

"  Miss  Hunsden  will  always  find  mo  her  friend  if  she 
ever  needs  one.     Farewell!" 

Again  he  was  turning  awa}^  He  would  not  touch  the 
proffered  palm.  He  was  so  deathly  white,  and  his  voice 
shook  so,  that  the  hot  tears  rushed  into  the  impetuous 
Harrie's  eyes. 

*'  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  with  the  simple  humility  of 
a  little  child.  "  Please  forgive  me.  Sir  Everard.  1  know 
it  was  horrid  of  me  to  laugh;  but  you  don't  really  care  for 
me,  you  know.  You  only  think  you  do;  and  I — oh!  I'm 
only  a  flighty  little  girl  of  seventeen,  and  I  don't  love  any- 
body in  the  world  but  papa,  and  1  never  mean  to  bo  mar- 
I'ied—  at  least,  not  for  ages  and  ages  to  come, 
me. '" 


1)6  forgive 


THE    baronet's    BKIDE. 


97 


lie  bowed  low,  but  he  would  neither  answer  nor  take 
her  hand.     He  was  far  too  deeply  hurt. 

Before  she  could  speak  a^'ahi  he  was  gone.  A  moment, 
and  he  had  vaultetl  into  the  saddle  and  was  out  of  sight. 

"And  he's  as  mad  as  a  hatter!"  said  Harrie,  ruefully. 
*'  Oh,  dsar,  dear!  what  torments  men  are,  and  what  u  bore 
falling  in  love  is!  And  1  liked  him,  too,  better  than  any 
of  them,  and  thought  we  were  going  to  be  brothers  in 
arms — Damon  and — what's  his  name? — and  all  that  sort 
of  thing!  It's  of  no  use  my  ever  hoping  for  a  friend.  1 
shall  never  have  one  in  this  lower  world,  for  just  so  sure 
as  I  get  to  like  u  person,  that  person  must  go  and  fall  hi 
love  with  me,  and  then  we  quarrel  and  part.     It's  hard." 

And  Miss  Hunsden  sighed  deeply,  and  went  into  the 
house. 

And  Sir  Everard  rode  home  as  if  the  fiend  was  after  liim 
— like  a  man  gone  mad — flung  the  reins  of  the  foaming 
horse  to  the  astounded  groom,  rushed  up  to  his  room  and 
looked  himself  in,  and  declined  his  luncheon  and  his  din- 
ner, and  would  have  blown  his  brains  out  if  there  had  been 
a  loaded  pistol  within  the  four  walls. 

And  the  result  of  it  all  was  /"^"^at  when  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  next  morning,  with  a  white,  wild  face,  and  livid 
rings  round  his  eyes,  he  electrified  the  family  by  his  abrupt 
announcement: 

"  I  start  for  Constantinople  to-morrow.  From  thence  I 
shall  make  a  tour  of  the  East.  I  will  not  return  to  Eng- 
land for  the  next  three  years." 


jt 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

LYING   IN   EKITHLOW   WOOD. 

A  THUNDERBOLT  falling  at  your  feet  from  a  cloudless 
8'ummer  sky  must  be  rather  astounding  in  its  unexpected- 
ness, but  no  thunderbolt  ever  created  half  the  consterna- 
tion Sir  Everard's  fierce  announcement  did.  They  looked 
at  him  and  at  each  other  with  blank  faces — his  was  set, 
rigid,  ghastly. 

"Going  away!"  his  mother  murmured  —  "going  to 
Constantinople.     My  dear  Evorurd,  you  don't  mean  it?" 

"  Don't  I?"  he  said,  fiercely,  "Don't  1  look  as  if  T. 
meant  it?" 


il8 


THE    BAltONET  8    IIRIDE. 


1   ' 


',      ! 


I     ! 


"  But  what  has  hapi)ened?  Oh,  Everard,  what  does  ^l 
this  mean?" 

"  It  means,  mother,  that  I  am  a  mad,  desperate  and 
reokless  man;  that  I  don't  care  whether  I  ever  return  to 
England  again  or  not/' 

Lady  Kingshuurs  own  angry  temper  and  imperious 
spirit  began  to  rise.  Her  cheeks  Hushed  and  her  eyes 
ilaslied. 

"  It  means  you  arc  a  headstrong,  selfisli,  cruel  boyi 
You  don't  care  an  iota  what  pain  you  inilict  on  others,  if 
you  are  thwarted  ever  so  dightly  yourself.  1  have  in- 
dulged you  from  your  childhood.  You  have  never  known 
one  unsatisfied  wi^-h  it  was  in  my  power  to  gratify,  and 
this  is  my  reward!'* 

Ho  sat  in  sullen  silence.  He  felt  the  reproach  keenly  m 
its  sim2ile  trutli;  but  his  heart  was  too  sore,  tlie  pain  too 
bitter,  to  let  him  yield. 

'*  You  promise  me  obedience  in  the  dearest  wish  of  my 
heart,'*  her  ladyship  wont  on,  ])assionately,  heedless,  now 
that  her  fiery  spirit  was  fairly  up,  of  the  presence  of  Mil- 
dred and  Sybilla,  "  and  you  break  thtit  promise  at  the  firsc 
sight  of  a  wild  young  hoidon  in  a  hunting-field.  It  is  o© 
her  account  you  frighten  me  to  death  in  this  heartleee 
manner,  because  1  refuse  my  consent  to  your  consummat- 
ing your  own  disgrace." 

"  My  disgrace?"  His  blue  eyes  fairly  blazed.  **  Take 
care,  mother!" 

"Do  you  dare  speak  in  that  tone  to  me?"  She  roat 
up  from  the  table,  livid  with  jxission.  "  1  repeat  it.  Sir 
Everard  Kingsland — your  disgrace!  Mystery  shrouds  this 
girl's  birth  and  her  father's  marriage — if  he  ever  was  mar- 
ried—and where  there  is  mystery  there  is  guilt." 

"A  sweeping  assertion!"  the  baronet  said,  with  god- 
oentrated  scorn;  "but  in  the  present  instance,  my  good 
mother,  a  little  out  of  place.  Tlie  mystery  is  of  your  own 
making.  The  late  Mrs.  Harold  Hunsden  was  a  native  of 
New  Yovli.  There  she  was  married — there  she  died  at  her 
daughter's  birth.  Ca})tain  Hunsden  cherishes  her  memory 
all  too  deeply  to  make  it  the  town  talk,  hence  all  tlio 
county  is  up  agape  inventing  slander.  1  hope  yon  son 
satisfied?" 

Lady  Kingsland  stood  still,  gazing  at  him  in  her 
prise. 


THE    BAMONET's    bride. 


99 


a 


Take 


Who  told  you  all  this?"  slie  asktad. 

"  yiio  who  had  the  beat  right  to  kuovv — the  slandered 
womaii'H  daughter/' 

'Miuluud— indeed!''  slowly  and  soarchingly.  "You 
have  been  talking  to  her,  tliun?  And  your  whole  heart  is 
re;Uly  sot  on  this  matter,  Everard?" 

iSlie  came  a  step  nearer;  her  voice  softened;  she  laid  one 
sleiulor  h:ind,  with  inlinite  tenderness,  on  his  shoulder — 
this  inipotuous  only  son  was  so  unspeakably  dear  to  her. 

"  What  doe^  it  matter?"  he  retorted,  impatiently  toss- 
ing back  his  bright,  fair  hair,  his  voice  full  of  sharp  in- 
ward pain.     "  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  me  alone,  mother!" 

"  My  boy  " — a  little  tremor  in  my  lady's  steady  voice — 
*'  if  you  really  love  this  wild  girl  so  much,  if  your  whole 
heart  is  set  on  her,  I  must  withdraw  my  objections.  I 
can  refuse  my  dtirling  nothing.  Woo  Harriet  Uunsden, 
wed  her,  and  bring  her  here.  I  will  try  and  receive  her 
kindly  for  your  sake." 

Sir  Everard  Kingsland  shook  off  the  fair,  white,  caress- 
ing hand,  and  rose  to  his  feet,  with  a  harsh,  strident  laugh. 
^*  You  are  very  iiood,  niy  mother,  but  it  is  a  little  too  late. 
Miss  lluiisilun  did  me  the  honor  to  refuse  me  yesterday." 
'  Kefuse  you?" 

^he  recoiled  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"  Even  so — incredible  as  it  sounds!  You  see  this  little 
barbarian  is  not  so  keenly  alive  to  the  magnificent  honor 
of  an  alliance  with  the  house  of  Kingsland  as  some  others 
are,  and  she  said  No  plumply  when  I  asked  her  to  be  my 
wife.  Not  only  that,  but  laughed  in  my  face  for  my  pre- 
sumption." 

Again  that  harsh,  jarring  laugh  rang  out,  and  with  the 
last  word  he  strode  from  the  room,  olosing  the  door  with 
an  emphatic  bang. 

Lady  Kingsland  sunk  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  per- 
fectly overcome,  and  looked  at  her  daughter.  Sybilla  Sil- 
ver, with  a  strong  inclination  to  laugh  in  their  faces,  raised 
her  tea- cup,  and  hid  a  malicious  smile  there. 

"  Refused  him!**  my  lady  murmured,  helplessly. 
"  Mildred,  did  you  hear  what  he  said?" 

'*  Yes,  mamma,"  Mildred  replied,  in  distress.  "  She  is 
a  very  proud  girl — Harriet  Hunsden.  " 

*'  Proud!  Good  heavens!"  My  lady  sprung  to  her  feet, 
goaded  by  the  word.     "  The  wretched  little  pauper!  the 


I 


'h 


VI 


» 


100 


THE    HAJiONKTB    JJIilDE. 


lined ticrtied,  uiKUviliziul,  horriblo  little  wretolil  What 
biisines.-j  Ikis  she  with  ])ri(lo — with  nothing  undur  tiio  sun 
to  bu  proud  ol:'  Uufiiso  my  .son!  Oh,  bIio  ninst  be  mad, 
or  H  fool,  or  bollil  I  will  novor  forj^ivo  hor  as  lonj;  as  I 
live;  nor  liini,  citlu'r,  for  asking  hur!" 

With  which  my  lady  Hung  oiii;  of  tho  apartment  in  u 
towering  rage,  and  went  up  to  her  room  and  fell  into 
hysterics  and  tho  arms  of  her  nnud  on  tho  S[)ot. 

It  was  a  day  of  ili.strefs  at  Kiiigsland  Court — gloom  antl 
despair  reigned.  Lady  Kiiigsland,  shut  np  in  her  own 
apartments,  would  not  be  comforted — and  Sir  Everard, 
busied  with  his  preparations,  was  doggedly  determined  to 
carry  out  his  designs.  Sybilla  was  the  only  one  who  en- 
joyed the  situation,  and  she  did  enjoy  the  prevailing  dis- 
may with  a  keen  enjoyment  that  seemed  quite  incredible. 

As  she  stood  in  tho  front  portico,  early  in  the  afternoon, 
humming  jauntily  an  opera  tune,  a  servant  wearing  tho 
Hunsdcn  livery  rode  up  to  her  and  delivered  a  twisted 
note. 

"  For  Sir  Everard,"  said  tho  man,  and  rodo  away. 

Miss  Silver  took  it,  looked  at  it  with  one  of  her  curious 
little  smiles,  thought  a  moment,  turned,  and  carried  it 
straight  to  my  lady.     My  lady  examined  it  with  angry  eyes. 

"  From  Miss  Hunsdcn,'^  she  said,  contcmi)tuou8ly. 
"  She  rej)ents  her  hasty  decision,  no  doubt,  and  sends  to 
tell  him  so.  Rold,  designing  creature!  Find  Sir  Ever- 
ard's  valet.  Miss  Silver,  and  give  it  to  him." 

Miss  Silver  did  as  rec] nested.  Sir  Everard  was  in  his 
dressing-room  arraying  for  dinner,  and  his  j)ale  face 
flushed  deep  red  as  he  received  the  note.  Did  she  repent 
— did  she  recall  her  refusali*  Ho  tore  it  open  and  literally 
devoured  the  contents. 

"  Dear  Sir  Everard, — Please,  jilease,  please  forgive 
me!  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  I  laughed  and  made  you  angry! 
But  indeed  I  thought  you  only  meant  it  as  a  joke.  Two 
days  is  such  a  little  while  to  bo  acquainted  before  propos- 
ing, you  know.  Won't  you  come  to  see  us  again?  Papa 
has  asked  for  you  several  times.  Pray  j^ardon  me.  You 
would  if  you  knew  how  penitent  I  am. 

' '  Yours  remorsefully, 

"JIarrie  Hunsden. 

"Hunsden  Hal),  Nov.  15th,  16-." 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


101 


Two 


lie  read  tho  pitooiis,  child isli  little  lettor  over  and  over 
again  until  his  face  glowed.  Jt  takes  but  a  morueiit  to 
lift  tliese  impetuous,  iuipul.sivo  iiooplo  from  the  dej)ths  of 
despair  to  the  apex  of  bli.ss.  Jloim  planted  her  siiining 
foot  onee  more  on  the  baronet's  heart. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  said,  hiding  away  tho  little 
])iid<;- tinted,  violet-perfumed  note  very  near  Ins  heart. 
"  Common  courtesy  requires  me  to  say  farewell  before  I 
start  for  Constantinople.  And  the  captain  likofj  mo,  and 
ids  inlhience  is  all-i)owerful  with  her,  added  the  young 
man,  somewhat  inconseqnently,  "  and  who  knows — " 

lie  did  not  finish  the  mental  sentence.  He  rapidly  com- 
pleted his  toilet,  hid  his  dimier-costumo  under  a  loose  rid. 
ing-Goat,  ordered  his  horse,  and  set  otl'  hot  foot. 

Of  course,  all  the  short  cuts  came  in  requisition.  The 
path  through  lirithlow  Wood  was  the  path  he  took,  going 
at  full  gallop.  Lost  in  a  deliciously  hopeful  reverie,  he 
was  half  way  through,  when  a  hollow  groan  from  the  way- 
side smote  his  ear. 

"  For  God's  sake,"  a  faint  voice  called,  "  help  a  dying 
man!" 

The  baronet  stared  around  aghast.  Right  before  him, 
under  the  trees,  lay  the  jirostrate  figure  of  a  fallen  man. 
I'o  leap  off  his  horse,  to  bend  over  him,  was  but  the  work 
of  an  instant.  Judge  of  his  dismay  when  he  beheld  the 
livid,  discolored  face  of  Captain  liunsden. 

"  Croat  Heaven!  Captain  Hunsden!  What  horrible  ac- 
cideiit  is  this?" 

The  dulled  eyes  of  the  Indian  officer  sought  his  face. 

"  Sir  Everard,*'  he  murmured,  in  a  thick,  choking  tone, 
"  go — tell  Ilarrie — poor  Harrie — " 

His  voice  died  away. 

**  Were  you  thrown  from  your  horse?  Were  you  way- 
laid?" asked  the  young  man,  thinking  of  his  own  recent 
adventure. 

"  One  of  those  apoplectic  attacks.  I  was  thrown.  Tell 
Harrie — " 

Again  the  thick,  guttural  accents  failed. 

Sir  Everard  raised  his  head,  and  knelt  for  a  moment  be- 
wildered. How  should  he  leave  him  here  alone  while  he 
went  in  search  of  a  conveyance? 

Just  then,  as  if  sent  directly  by  Providence,  the  Rever- 


11 

■J  , 


lit, 

il 


LM 


103 


TUT.    BATJONF.T  S    TITITDK 


end  Cyrna  Orooii,  in  ]ii«  lij;lit  clmiso,  drovo  into  tho  vrood- 
Itmd  ])iith. 

*'  ][i'jivon  1)0  praised  I"  cried  tlio  ])!ironot,.  "  I  was  won- 
doriiig  vvhiit  I  .should  do.  A  droiidl'id  a(X!idonfc  hua  faiip- 
j)()n(!(l,  Mr.  (ireen.  C'ii])tiiin  Jfnnwlon  lias  had  a  Tall,  and 
is  vory  ill.'* 

'I'lio  rL'(!tor  got  out,  in  consternation,  and  bent  abovo  tho 
prostrate  man.  Tho  captain's  fa(!o  had  turned  a  dull, 
livid  huo,  his  eyes  had  closed,  his  breathing  canie  hoarse 
and  thick. 

"Very  ill,  indeed,"  said  tho  clergyman,  gravely — "so 
ill  that  I  fear  he  will  never  be  better.  liCt  us  phuio  him 
in  the  chaise,  Sir  Everard.  J  will  drive  slowly,  and  do  you 
ride  on  to  Hnnsden  llall  to  prepare  his  daughter  for  the 
shook. ' ' 

Tho  Indian  oHicor  was  a  stalwart,  powerful  num.  It 
was  tho  utmost  their  united  strength  could  do  to  lift  hiiu 
into  the  chaise.  He  lay  awfully  corpse-like  among  the 
eushions,  rigid  and  stark. 

"  liide — ride  for  your  life!'*  the  rector  said,  "  and  dis- 
patch a  serv.'int  for  the  family  doctor.  1  fear  the  result 
of  this  fall  will  be  fatal.'* 

He  needed  no  second  bidding;  he  was  off  like  the  wind. 
8ir  (lalahad  sprung  over  the  ground,  and  reached  Hvins- 
den  in  an  incredibly  short  time.  A  Hying  iigure,  in  wifd 
ularm,  came  down  the  avenue  to  meet  him. 

"  Oh,  Sir  Everard!''  Harrie  panted,  in  alTright,  "  where 
»s  papa?  He  left  to  go  to  Kingsland  Court,  and  Starlight 
has  come  galloping  back  riderless.  Something  awful  has 
happened,  l  know!" 

He  looked  down  upon  her  with  eyes  full  of  passionate 
love.  How  beautiful  she  looked,  with  her  pale,  upraised 
face,  her  wild,  alTrighted  eyes,  her  streaming  hair,  her 
clasped  hands. 

His  num's  heart  burned  within  him.  He  wanted  to 
catch  her  in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  there  forever — to  shield 
her  from  all  the  world  and  all  worldly  sorrow. 

Something  of  what  he  felt  must  have  shone  in  his  ardent 
eyes.  Hers  dropped,  and  a  bright,  virginal  blush  dyed  for 
the  first  time  cheek  and  brow.  Jle  vaulted  oil'  his  horse 
and  stood  uncovered  before  her. 

"  Dear  Miss  Hunsden,'*  he  said,  gently,   "  there  has 


THE    baronet's    BKFDi:. 


108 


Jt 


eeon  an  accident.  I  am  sorry  to  bo  the  buaror  of  ill  nowa, 
but  don't  bo  alarmed — all  may  yet  bo  wuU/' 

"  I'apa!"  alio  barely  gas])e(l. 

*'  lie  has  niut  with  an  acuidoiit — a  sooond  apoploiitic  lit. 
1  Unind  liini  lyiti"-  in  Britlilow  Wood.  Ho  liad  failrn  I'roru 
iiis  liortio.  Mr.  dreon  is  i'elcliiiiy  liini  horo  in  his  cliaiso. 
Tlioy  will  arrive  presently.  You  liail  butter  have  his  rooia 
prepared,  and  I — will  J  ride  for  your  ])liysioian  myself?" 

►She  leaned  against  a  tree,  sick  and  taint.  Jlejuadea 
stop  toward  her,  but  she  rallied  and  motioned  him  (»ir. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  lot  mo  be!  J)on't  ^o.  Sir  Kverard — 
remain  hero.  I  will  send  a  servant  for  the  doetor.  (Jh,  I 
dreaded. this!  I  warned  iiim  when  ho  left  this  artcrnooBij 
but  he  wanted  to  sec  you  so  mueh.'^ 

She  left  him  and  liurried  into  the  house,  dispatched  a 
man  on  horseback  for  the  doctor,  and  j)repared  her  fa- 
therms  room. 

In  tiiteen  minutes  the  doctor's  pony-chaise  drove  up. 
lie  and  the  baronet  and  the  butler  assisted  the  strickoH. 
and  insensible  man  up  to  his  room,  and  laid  him  upon  tho 
bed  from  which  ho  was  never  more  to  rise. 


CHAPTEU   XIV. 

THE  captain's   LAST   NKiHT. 

The  twilight  was  falling,  ghostly  and  gray.  A.  long, 
lamentable  blast  worried  the  strip})ed  trees  and  drove  tho 
dead  leaves  before  it  in  whirling  drifts. 

A  pale  young  crescent  moon  rose  watery  in  the  bleak, 
starless  sky;  down  on  tlio  shore  tho  Hood  tide  boat  its 
hoarse  refrain,  and  in  his  chamber  Harold  Godfrey  Huns- 
den  lay  dying. 

They  knew  it — the  silent  watchers  in  that  somber  room 
— his  danghter,  and  all.  She  knelt  by  the  bedside,  her 
face  hidden — not  weeping;  still,  tearless,  stunned.  Sir 
Everard,  the  doctor,  the  rector,  silent  and  sad,  stood 
around. 

The  dying  man  had  been  aroused  to  full  coasciousness 
at  last.  One  hand  feebly  rested  on  his  daughter's  stricken 
young  head,  the  other  lay  motionless  on  the  counterpane. 
His  dulled  eyes  went  aimlessly  wandering. 

"  Doctor!" 

The  old  physician  b.nt  over  him* 


m 


1 

i' 

111 

104 


THK    PAIiONKTS    r.UIDE. 


up 


"  Itow  loii^?"  lio  j>iiuseil — *'  how  lon^  am  1  luat?" 

*'  My  (lojir  /rloiKl — " 

"How  loiif^'i""  tlio  Iiuliiin  oUicor  imputiontly  saicU 
''Quiolv!  tho  truth!  how  hmg?" 

*'  Until  to-morrow." 

'♦Ah!" 

Tho  hiwid  lying  on  llarric's  chirk  curls  luy  more  hcivvily 
perhaps — that  waa  all. 

"  Is  there  anything  you  wish?  anything  you  want  done? 
any  person  you  woulil  like  to  see?*' 

"  Yes/*  the  (lying  man  answered,  life  suddenly  leaping 

I  in  his  gla/.ing  uyes — '*  yes,  Sir  Everard  Kingsland. 

"  Sir  Kverartl  Kingsland  is  here.*' 

lie  motioned  tho  baronet  to  ai)proach,  retreating  him- 
self. 

Sir  Everard  bent  over  him. 

"Send  them  away,"  said  tho  sick  man.  "Both.  1 
want  to  s])eak  to  you  alone." 

"  Even  in  that  Bui)rcmo  moment — in  the  awful  presence 
of  death — the  lover's  heart  bounded  at  the  wordo  tho  dying 
man  might  say. 

lie  delivered  tho  message,  and  tho  rector  and  doctor 
went  into  tho  passage  to  wait. 

"  Come  closer,"  the  captain  said,  and  the  young  baronet 
knelt  by  the  bedside,  opposite  Ilarrie,  "  and  tell  the  truth 
to  a  dying  man.     ilarrie,  my  darling,  are  you  listening?" 

"  Ves,  papa." 

She  lifted  her  jiale  young  face,  rigid  in  tearless  despair. 

"  My  own  dear  girl,  1  am  going  to  leave  a  little  soonei 
than  I  thought.  I  knew  my  death  would  be  soon  and  sud- 
den, but  I  did  not  expect  it  so  soon,  so  awfully  sudden  as 
this!"  llis  li2)S  twitched  spasmodically,  and  there  was  a 
brief  pause.  "  1  had  ho2)ed  not  to  leave  you  alone  and 
friendless  in  tho  world,  i3enniless  and  unprotected.  I 
hoped  to  live  to  see  you  the  wife  of  some  good  man,  but  it 
is  not  to  be.  God  wills  for  the  best,  my  darling,  and  to 
Him  I  leave  you." 

A  dry,  choking  sob  was  the  girl's  answer.  Ilor  eyes 
were  burning  and  bright.  The  captain  turned  to  the  im- 
patient, expectant  young  baronet. 

*'  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,"  he  said,  with  a  painful  effort, 
"you  are  the  son  of  my  old  and  much-valueil  friend; 
therefore  1  speak.     My  near  approach  to  eternity  lifts  me 


■'tLi 


THF    1^AIJ(»N"KT  M    HUIDR. 


10ft 


ftbovo  the  minor  ooiisiilctrations  of  time.  Yostonliw  morn- 
i?i<,S  from  y()iHl(M'  wiiidovv,  1  huw  you  oii  tho  torruco  with 
my  (iiiii;.'hU!r. " 

'J'ho  barom^t  ^n'usped  liis  luiiid,  liia  faco  lliishotl,  ]iia  03'03 
aglow.     Oh,  Hiircly,  tiiK  iiour  of  liis  revviiid  liiul  (uimo! 

"  ^'^011  made  lior  an  olTor  of  your  hiind  and  iieart?" 

*'  \Viii(!li  sho  ntl'u.sod,"  llio  younj";  mail  said,  with  a 
f^lanco  of  uuiittorabli!  ru2)roa(!h.  "  Yob,  sir;  and  I  lovo  her 
with  my  wholo  lioart!" 

JmpotuoUvS  two-and-twonty!  TTo  for<,n)t  tlio  doath-bed; 
he  forjrot  ovorythiiii,'  earthly,  Imt  tlial  lii.s  bliss  or  despair 
/or  lifo  was  sliil'ting  in  the  Ijalaiicu.  lie  looked  aerosa  with 
giuvviiii^  eyes. 

'*  I  thought  so,"  very  faintly.  "  Why  did  you  refuae, 
Hiirrie?" 

"  Oh,  pupal"  Shi)  covorcul  her  face  with  her  hands,  in 
maidenly  ^hame,  from  l;pr  lover's  radiant  eyes.  "  Why 
ant  we  talUinir  of  this  now?" 

"  J)i!oause  1  am  going  to  leave  vou,  my  daughter.  Be- 
cause I  would  not  leave  vou  aloiu'.  Why  did  you  refuse 
yirKverard:-"' 

"  Papa,  1 — I.  only  knew  him  such  a  little  while." 

"  And  that  is  all.^  You  don't  dislike  him,  do  you,  my 
pet?" 

She  Hushed  all  over.     They  eoidd  see  "  beauty's  bright, 
transient  glow  "  through  the  hiding  hands. 
No-o,  papa.'' 

And  you  don't  like  any  one  elbo  better?" 
Papa,  you  know  1  don't." 

My  own  spotless  darling!    And  you  will  let  Sir  Ever- 
ard  love  you,  and  be  your  true  and  tender  husband?" 

"  Oh,  papa,  don't!" 

She  Hung  herself  down  with  a  vehement  cry.  But  Sir 
Everard  turned  his  radiant,  hopeful,  impassioned  face 
upon  the  Indian  othcer. 

"  For  God's  sake,  plead  my  cause,  sir!  She  will  listen 
to  you.  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  I  will  be 
miserable  for  life  without  her." 

"  Y"ou  hear,  Ilarrie?  'This  vehement  young  wooer — 
make  him  ha[)py.     Make  me  ha[)py  by  saying  '  Yes.' '' 

She  looked  up  with  the  wild  glance  of  a  stag  nt  bay. 
For  one  moment  her  frantic  idea  was  llight. 

"My  love— my  life!"   Sir  j*>,'erard  caught  both  her 


I 


:.lh< 


I 
ml 


.1  ■ 


:,' 


i^ 


^1 


I    « 


106 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


hands  across  the  bed,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse  with,  its 
concentrated  emotion.  "  You  don't  know  how  I  love  you. 
If  you  refuse  I  sliall  go  mad.  I  will  be  the  truest,  the 
tenderest  husband  ever  man  was  to  woman. '' 

The  great  gray  eyes  flashed  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
looked  like  a  creature  out  of  herself. 

'*  I  am  dying,  Ilarrie,"  her  father  said,  sadly,  '*  and 
you  will  be  all  alone  in  this  big,  bad  world.  But  if  your 
heart  says  *  No,'  my  own  best  beloved,  to  my  old  friend's 
son,  then  never  hesitate  to  refuse.  In  all  my  life  1  never 
thwarted  you.     On  my  death-bed  I  will  not  begin." 

"  What  shall  1  do?"  she  cried.     "  What  shall  1  do?" 

"  Comment!"  her  lover  whispered,  deathly  j^ale  with  his 
supreme  suspense. 

'*  Consent!"  Her  father's  anxious  eyes  spoke  the  woi*d 
eloquently. 

»he  looked  from  one  to  the  other — the  dying  father,  the 
handsome,  hopeful,  impetuous  young  lover.  Some  faint 
thrill  in  her  heart  answered  his.     Girls  like  daring  lovers. 

She  drew  her  hands  out  of  his  clasp,  hesitated  a  mo- 
ment, while  that  lovely,  sensitive  blush  came  and  went, 
then  gave  them  suddenly  bacii  of  her  own  accord. 

He  grasped  them  tight,  with  an  inarticulate  ery  of 
ecstasy.  For  worlds  he  could  not  have  spoken.  The 
clying  face  looked  unutterably  relieved. 

"  That  means  *  Yes,'  Harrie?" 

**  Yes,  papa." 

"ThpnkGod!" 

He  joined  their  hands,  looking  earnestly  at  the  young 
man. 

"  She  is  yours,  Kingsland.  May  God  deal  with  you  as 
you  deal  with  my  orphan  child!" 

*'Amen!" 

Solemnly  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  pronounced  his  own 
eoudeninotion  with  the  word.  Awfully  came  back  the 
memory  of  that  adjuration  in  the  terrible  days  to  come. 

"  She  is  very  young,"  said  Captain  Hunsden,  after  a 
pause — "  too  young  to  marry,     ^'oti  must  wait  a  year. " 

"A  year!" 

Sir  Everard  repeated  the  word  in  consternation,  as  if  it 
liad  been  a  century. 

*'  Yes,"  said  the  captain,  firmly.  **  A  year  is  not  too 
long,  and  she  will  onlj  be  eighteen  then.    Let  her  retsrn 


i  I 


■  .i 


TTTE    baronet's    TIRTDE. 


107 


to  her  old  penftion  in  Paris.  Slio  sadly  needs  the  help  of 
a  finishing  school,  my  poor  littie  girl!  My  will  is  made. 
The  little  1  leave  will  suflici^  for  her  wants.  Mr.  (Jroen  is 
her  guardian — he  understands  my  wishes.  Oh,  my  lad!" 
with  an  elociuent,  fatherly  cry,  "  you  will  be  very  good  t© 
my  friendless  little  llarrie!  She  will  have  but  you  in  dfio 
w*de  world." 

**  I  swear  it.  Captain  Hunaden!  It  will  be  my  blisvS  a»d 
my  honor  to  make  her  my  happy  wife.'' 

'"  I  believe  you.  And  now  go — go  both,  and  leave  me 
alone,  for  I  am  very  tired.  '* 

Sir  Kverard  arose,  but  Harrie  grasped  her  father's  cold 
hand  in  terror. 

"  K^o,  no,  papa!  1  will  not  leave  you.  Let  me  stay.  I 
wfll  be  very  quiet — I  shall  not  disturb  j'ou. '* 

"  As  you  like,  my  dear.  She  will  call  you,  Kingslan«l, 
by  and  by. " 

The  young  man  left  the  room.  Then  Harriet  lifted  a 
pale,  reproachful  face  to  her  father. 

**  Pupa,  how  could  you?" 

*'  My  dear,  you  are  not  sorry?  You  will  love  this  yoimg 
maa  very  dearly,  and  he  loves  you." 

"  But  his  mother.  Lady  Kingsland,  detests  me."  And, 
wiA  a  sudden  npreariug  of  the  proud  little  head,  a  sudden 
fia^  of  the  imperious  gray  eyes,  "  I  want  to  enter  bo 
man's  house  unwelcome.'' 

**  My  dear,  don't  be  hasty.  How  do  you  know  Lady 
Kingsland  detests  you?  That  is  impossible,  I  think.  She 
wili  be  a  kind  mother  to  my  little  motherless  girl.  Ab, 
piufnl  Heaven!  that  agony  is  to  come  yet!" 

A  spasm  of  jiain  convulsed  his  features,  his  brows  knit, 
his  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Harne,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  grasping  her  hands,  **  I 
have  a  secret  to  tell  you — a  horrible  secret  of  guilt  and  dis- 
grace! It  has  blighted  my  life,  blasted  every  hope,  turned 
the  whole  world  into  a  black  and  festering  mass  of  cor- 
ruption! And,  oh!  worst  of  all,  you  must  })ear  it — yo«r 
life  must  be  darkened,  too.  But  not  until  the  grave  has 
closed  over  me.     My  child,  look  hero." 

He  drew  out,  with  a  painful  effort,  something  from  be- 
neath his  pillow  and  handed  it  to  her.  It  was  a  letter,  ad- 
dressed to  herself,  and  tightly  sealed. 

'*  M?  secret  is  there."  hie  whispered — **  the  secret  it 


m 

-'a 
Ml 


1 1 


108 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


ri 


ll 


-;i 


J.' 


would  blister  my  lips  to  tell  you.  "When  yoii  are  safe  with 
Madame  Beaufort,  in  Paris,  ojjeu  and  read  this — not  be- 
fore.    You  promise,  Harrie?" 

"  \nything,  pajja — everything!"  She  hid  it  away  in 
her  Dosom.  "  And  now  try  to  sleep;  you  are  talking  a 
great  deal  too  much. " 

"  Sing  for  me,  then." 

She  obeyed  the  strange  request — he  had  always  loved  to 
hear  her  sing.  She  commenced  a  plaintive  little  song,  and 
before  it  was  finished  he  was  asleep. 

All  night  long  she  watched  by  his  bedside.  Kow  he 
slept,  now  he  woke  up  fitfully,  now  he  fell  into  a  lethargic 
repose.  The  doctor  and  Sir  Everard  kept  watch  in  an  ad- 
joining chamber,  within  sight  of  that  droo])ing,  girlish 
form. 

Once,  in  the  small  hours,  the  sick  man  looked  at  her 
clearly,  and  spoke  aloud: 

'  Wake  me  at  day-dawn,  Harrie. " 

*'  Yes,  jxipa." 

And  then  he  slept  again.  The  slow  hours  dragged  away 
— morning  was  near.  She  walked  to  the  window,  drew  the 
curtain  and  looked  out.  Dimly  the  pearly  light  was  creej)- 
ing  over  the  sky,  lighting  the  purple,  sleeping  soa,  bright- 
ening and  brightening  with  every  passing  second. 

She  would  not  disobey  him.  She  left  the  window  and 
bent  over  the  bed.     How  still  he  lay! 

"Papa,"  she  said,  kissing  him  softly,  *'day  is  dawn- 


f> 


mg. 

But  the  cajjtain  never  moved  nor  spoke.  And  then 
Harriet  Hunsden  knew  the  everlasting  day  had  dawned 
for  him. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   DEAD   MAN'S   SECRET. 

It  was  a  very  stately  ceremonial  that  which  passed 
through  the  gates  of  Hunsden  Hall,  to  lay  Harold  Godfrey 
Hunsden's  ashes  with  those  of  many  scores  of  Hunsdens 
who  had  rcnc  before. 

K.I 

The  hoir  at  law — an  imi)Overishcd  London  swell — was 
there  in  sables  and  sweeping  hat-band,  exulting  inwardly 
that  the  old  chap  had  gono  at  last,  and  "  the  king  had  got 
his  own  again." 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


109 


m 


he 


Sir  Everard  Kingsland  was  there,  conspicuous  and  in- 
teresting in  his  new  cai)acity  of  betrothed  to  the  dead  man's 
daughter. 

And  the  dead  man's  daughter  herself,  in  trailing  crape 
and  sables,  deathly  pale  and  still,  was  likewise  there,  cold 
and  rigid  almost  as  the  corpse  itself. 

For  she  had  never  shed  a  tear  since  thnt  awful  moment 
when,  with  a  wild,  wailing  cry  of  orphanage,  she  lial  Hung 
herself  down  on  the  dead  breast  as  the  new  day  dawned. 

Pale,  tearless,  rigid,  she  sat  beside  that  ghastly  clay, 
st'mned,  benumbed,  with  all  the  keen  after-agony  of  lone- 
liness and  sorrow  to  come.  She  had  loved  her  soldier- 
father  with  an  entire  and  intense  love,  and  he  had  gone 
from  her  so  awfully,  so  suddenly  that  she  sat  dazed  under 
the  blow. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  was  one  of  ghostly  gloom.  The 
November  wind  swept  icily  over  the  sea  with  a  dreary  wail 
of  winter;  the  cold  rain  beat  its  melancholy  drip,  drip;  sky 
and  earth  and  sea  were  all  blurred  and  blotched  in  a  clammy 
mist. 

White  and  wild,  Harriet  Ilunsden  hung  on  her  lover's 
arm  while  the  lieverend  Cyrus  Green  solemnly  read  the 
touching  burial  service,  and  Ilaiold  Ilunsden  was  laid  to 
sleep  the  everlasting  sleep. 

And  then,  through  wailing  wind  and  driving  rain,  she 
was  going  back  to  the  desolate  old  home — oh,  so  horribly 
desolate  now!  She  looked  at  his  empty  chamber,  at  his 
vacant  chair,  at  his  forsaken  bed.  Her  face  worked;  with 
a  long,  anguished  cry  she  Jlung  herself  on  her  lover's 
breast  and  wept  the  rushing,  passionate  tears  of  seventeen 
— wept  wildly  and  long  the  impetuous,  blessed  tears  that 
keep  youthful  hearts  from  breaking. 

He  held  her  there  as  reverently,  as  tenderly  as  that  dead 
father  might  have  done,  letting  her  cry  her  fill,  smoothing 
the  glossy  hair,  kissing  the  slender  hands,  calling  her  by 
names  never  to  be  forgotten  while  one  pulse  of  life  should 
beat. 

"  My  darling — my  darling!  my  bride — my  wife!'* 

She  lifted  her  face  at  last  and  looked  at  him  as  she  never 
had  looked  at  mortal  man  bcfoi'e.  In  that  moment  he  had 
his  infinite  reward.  She  loved  him  as  only  these  strong- 
hearted,  passionate  women  can  love — once  and  forever. 


V 

% 

i":' 


f 


I 


i 


li: 


110 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


"  Lovo  me,  Everiird,"  she  whispered,  holding  him  close, 
"  I  have  uo  one  in  the  world  now  but  you." 

*  -IJ  -i:  *  .-(s  5l«  * 

That  night  Ilarrie  Iluusden  left  the  old  home  forever. 
The  Kevorend  Cyrus  drove  her  to  the  rectory  in  the  rainy 
twilight,  tind  still  her  lover  sat  by  her  side,  as  it  was  his 
blisrif  ul  privilege  to  sit.  She  clung  to  him  now,  in  her  new 
desolation,  as  she  might  never  have  learned  to  cling  iu 
happier  times. 

The  rector's  wife  received  the  young  girl  with  opea 
arms,  and  embraced  her  with  motherly  heartiness. 

•■'My  poor,  pale  darling!"  she  said,  kissing  the  ^tMA 
eheeks.  '*  You  must  stay  with  us  until  your  lost  roBow 
eome  blooming  back. " 

Bat  Ilarrie  shook  her  head. 

"  1  will  go  to  France  at  once,  please,"  she  said,  mo»K»- 
fuily.  "  Madame  Beaufort  was  always  good  to  me,  audit 
was  his  last  wish. " 

Her  voice  choked.     She  turned  away  her  head. 

"  It  shall  bo  as  you  say,  my  dear.     But  who  is  to  take 


you 


V' 


"  Mrs.  Ililliard,  and — I  think— Sir  Everard  Kingsland;'* 

Mrs.  Hilliard  had  been  housekeeper  at  Hunsden  HaiH, 
and  was  a  distant  relative  of  the  family.  Under  the  nejwr 
dynasty  she  was  leaving,  and  had  proffered  her  services  £0 
escort  her  young  mistress  to  Paris. 

The  IJeverend  Cyrus,  who  hated  crossing  the  chanjwA, 
had  closed  with  the  offer  at  once,  and  Sir  Everard  was  to 
play  protector. 

One  week  Miss  Hunsden  remained  at  the  rectory,  fortu- 
Mately  so  busied  by  her  preparations  for  departure  that  »o 
time  was  left  for  brooding  over  her  bereavement. 

And  then,  in  spite  of  that  great  trouble,  there  wae  a 
sweet,  new-born  bliss  flooding  her  heart 

How  good  ho  was  to  her — her  handsome  young  lover — 
how  solicitous,  how  tender,  how  devoted!  She  could  Isd^ 
her  hand  shyly  on  his  shoulder,  in  these  calm  twilights, 
and  nestle  down  in  his  arms,  and  feel  that  life  held  some- 
thing unutterably  sweet  and  blissful  for  her  still. 

As  for  Everard,  lie  absolutely  lived  at  the  rectory.  He 
rode  homo  every  night,  and  he  mostly  breakfasted  at  tSie 
Court;  but  to  all  intents  and  purposes  he  dwelt  at  the  par- 
sonage. 


THE    baronet's    BHIDE. 


Ill 


fM 


•'  Where  the  treasure  is,  thei-o  will  the  heart  be  also;" 
ancl  my  lady,  now  that  things  wore  settled,  and  the  jour- 
ney to  Constantinople  postponed  indellnitely,  had  sunk  into 
a  state  of  sulky  displeasure,  and  was  satirical,  and  scorn- 
ful, and  contemptuous,  and  stately,  and  altogether  exquis- 
itely disagreeable. 

Lady  ijouise  had  left  Devonshire,  and  gone  back  to  shiae 
brilliantly  in  London  society  once  more. 

Miss  liunsden  went  to  France  with  the  portly  old  house- 
keeper and  the  devoted  younc  baronet.  Mnie.  Beaufort 
received  her  ex-pupil  with  very  French  effusion. 

"  Ah,  my  angel!  so  pale,  so  sad,  so  beautiful!  I  am 
distracteil  at  the  apjKjarance!  But  we  will  restore  yow. 
Tiio  change,  the  associations — all  will  bo  well  in  time.'* 

The  lonely  young  creature  clung  to  her  lover  with  ])as- 
aionate  abandon.  It  was  their  first  separation  since  her 
father's  death. 

"Don't  go  back  just  yet,  Everard,"  she  implored. 
''  Let  me  get  used  to  being  alone.  When  you  are  with 
me  I  am  content,  but  when  you  go,  and  I  am  all  alone 
among  these  strangers — " 

Her  falling  tears,  her  clinging  arms  pleaded  for  her 
more  eloquently  than  words. 

lint  he  needed  no  pleading — he  loved  her  entirely,  de- 
votedly, lie  promised  anything — everything!  He  would 
remain  in  Paris  the  whole  year  of  probation,  if  she  wished, 
that  he  might  see  her  at  least  every  week. 

8ho  let  him  go  at  last,  and  stole  away  in  the  dusky 
gloaming  to  her  allotted  little  room.  8he  locked  the  door, 
sat  down  by  the  table,  laid  her  face  on  her  folded  arms, 
and  wet  them  with  her  raining  ^^ears. 

*'  I  loved  him  so!''  she  thought — "  my  precious  father! 
J  Oh,  it  was  hard  to  let  him  go!  '* 

^  She  cried  until  she  could  licerally  cry  no  longer.  Then 
slio  arose.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  she  lighted  her 
lamp. 

"  I  will  read  his  letter,"  she  said  to  herself — "  the  letter 
he  left  for  me.  I  will  learn  this  terrible  secret  that 
blighted  his  life."  ^ 

There  was  her  writing-case  on  the  table.  She  opened  it 
with  a  little  bright  key  attached  to  her  watch-guard,  and 
took  out  the  letter.  She  looked  sadly  at  the  superscription 
a  moment,  then  reverently  opened  it  and  began  to  read. 


i 


f 

! 


' 


• 


: 


'' 


i  ' 


iiiii 


112 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


*'  It  will  bo  like  his  voice  speaking  to  me  from  the 
grave/'  siie  thought.     "  My  own  tie  voted  father!" 

J  [all  an  hour  passed.  The  letter  was  long  and  closely 
wi-itton,  and  the  girl  read  it  slowly  from  beginning  to  end. 

With  the  first  page  every  trace  of  color  had  slowly  faded 
from  her  face;  her  eyes  dilated,  hor  form  grew  rigid  as  she 
sat.     JUit  she  steadily  read  on.     She  finished  it  at  last. 

it  dropped  in  her  lap.  She  sat  there,  staring  straight 
bofore  hor,  with  an  awful,  fixed,  vacant  stare.  Then  she 
arose  slowly,  mechanically  placed  it  in  the  writing-case, 
relocked  it,  put  her  hand,  to  her  head  confusedly,  and 
turned  witli  a  bewildered  look. 

llcr  face  Hushed  dark  red;  the  room  was  reeling,  the 
walls  rocking  dizzily.  She  made  a  step  forward  with  both 
hands  blindly  outstretched,  and  fell  headlong  to  the  fioor. 

Next  morning  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  descending  to  his 
hotel  breakfast,  found  a  sealed  note  beside  his  plate.  lie 
oprjied  it,  and  saw  it  was  from  the  directress  of  the  Fen- 
sionnat  ties  Demoiselles. 

"  Monsieur, — It  is  with  regret  I  inform  you  Mademoi- 
selle Hunsden  is  very  ill.  When  you  left  her  last  evening 
she  ascended  to  her  room  at  once.  An  hour  after,  sitting 
in  an  apartment  underneath,  I  heard  a  heavy  fall.  I  ran 
up  at  once.  Mademoiselle  lay  on  the  fioor  in  a  dead  swoon. 
1  rang  the  bell;  I  raised  her;  1  sent  for  the  doctor.  It 
was  a  very  long  swoon — it  was  very  difficult  to  restore  her. 
Mademoiselle  was  very  ill  all  night — out  of  herself — deliri- 
ous. The  doctor  fears  for  the  brain.  M\,  mo7i  Diim!  it 
is  very  sad — it  is  deplorable!  We  all  weeji  for  the  poor 
Mademoiselle  Hunsden.  I  am,  monsieur,  with  profound- 
est  sentiments  of  sorrow  and  pity, 

"Marie  Justine  Celi;ste  Beaufort." 

The  young  baronet  waited  for  no  breakfast.  He  seized 
his  hat,  tore  out  of  the  hotel,  sprung  into  a  fiacre,  and  was 
whirled  at  once  to  the  pension, 

Madame  came  to  him  to  the  jDarlor,  her  lace  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes.  Mademoiselle  was  very  ill.  Monsieur 
could  not  see  her,  of  course,  but  he  must  not  despair. 

Doctor  Pillule  had  hopes.  She  was  so  young,  so  strong; 
but  the  shock  of  her  f  jither's  death  must  jiave  been  preying 
on  her  mijid.     Madame's  sympathy  was  inexpressible. 

Harriet  lay  ill  for  many  days — delirious  often,  murmur- 


]    i 


" 


i 


THE    IJAUONET's    lUUDE. 


lU 


ing  things  })ltijibly  small,  calling  on  hor  father,  on  her 
lover — sometimes  on  her  horses  and  dogs.  Madame  and 
iier  satellites  tended  hor  with  unremitting  care.  Tho 
physician  was  skillful,  and  life  won  the  battle.  JJut  it  was 
a  weary  time  before  thoy  let  her  descend  to  the  i)arlor  to 
see  that  imi)atient  lover  of  hers,  who,  half  mad  with  sus- 
pense and  anxiety,  haunted  tho  house  like  a  ghost. 

It  was  very  near  Christnuis,  and  there  was  snow  on  the 
ground,  when  she  came  slowly  down  one  evening  to  see 
him.  Uii  sat  alone  in  the  prime  salon,  whore  the  porcelain 
stove  stood,  with  its  handful  of  fire,  looking  gloomily  out 
at  the  feathery  Hakes  whirling  through  the  leaden  twilight. 
He  turned  round  as  she  glided  in,  so  unlike  herself,  so  like 
a  spirit,  that  his  heart  stood  still. 

'*  My  love!  my  love!" 

It  was  all  he  could  say.  lie  took  her  in  his  arms,  so 
worn,  so  wasted,  so  sad;  wan  as  the  lluttering  snow  with- 
out. All  his  man's  heart  overllowed  with  iniinite  love  and 
pity  as  he  held  that  frail  form  in  his  strong  clasp. 

"  Dear  Everard,  1  have  been  so  ill  and  so  lonely;  1 
wanted  you  so  much!" 

And  then  she  sighed  wearily,  heavily,  and  laid  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  was  very  still,  lie  drew  her  to  him 
as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go  again. 

"  If  I  could  only  be  with  you  always,  my  darling.  It  is 
cruel  to  keep  us  apart  for  a  year." 

"  It  was  poor  i)apa's  wish,  Everard.  Ah,  poor,  poor 
papa!" 

The  unutterable  compassion,  tho  despairing  sorrow  of 
that  cry — he  could  not  understand  it.  He  was  inclined  to 
be  a  little  jealous  of  that  deathless  love — he  wanted  that 
heart  to  hold  no  image  but  his  own. 

Presently  madnmc  came  in,  and  there  were  lights,  and 
bustle,  and  separation.  Mile.  Ilunsden  must  not  renuiin 
too  long,  must  not  excite  herself.  Monsieur  must  go  away, 
and  come  again  to-morrow. 

*'  I  will  let  her  see  you  every  day,  poor  homesick  child, 
until  she  is  well  enough  to  go  into  the  dassc  and  commence 
her  studies.  Then,  not  so  often.  But  monsieur  will  be 
gone  long  before  that!" 

"  No,"  Sir  Everard  said,  distinctly.  *'  I  remain  in 
Paris  for  the  winter.  1  trust  to  madame's  kind  heart  to 
permit  me  to  see  Miss  Hunsden  often." 


f 


1 

If 

f 

'f 

: 

1 

1 

•'  i'l 

I 
I: 

/if 

lU 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


*'  Often!  Ah,  vtou  fJieuf  liow  you  Eugllsh  ure  impctu- 
onti!  so — how  do  you  call  him? — unreusoiiublo!  Monaieur 
mity  seo  iiiudomoiseilo  in  thu  suloii  every  Saturday  ai'te*'- 
noon — not  ot'touor. '' 

Mouaiour  pleudod.  Mutlanie  was  inexorable.  It  was  tlie 
rule  of  the  school,  and  as  unalterable  as  tho  laws  of  Ih'aoo. 
Harrie  herself  indorsed  it. 

•'It  is  better  so,  Kvorard.  1  want  to  study — Heaven 
knows  I  need  it!  and  your  frequent  visits  would  distraut 
me.     Let  once  a  week  sutlico.*' 

felir  Everard  3'^ielded  to  the  inevitable  with  Jho  best  gi'aco 
possible.  He  took  his  leave,  raising  Harriet's  hand  to  liis 
%)s,  and  looking  reproachfully  at  madame  for  standiiag 
by.  But  nuidanie  was  a  very  dragon  of  j)ropriety  whe^'e 
mm'  pupils  were  concerned. 

Harrie  lingered  by  the  window  lor  a  moment,  looking 
wstf ully  after  the  slender  tigure,-  and  slow,  graceful  walk. 

"  If  ho  only  knew!"  she  murmured.  "  If  he  only  know 
l^e  terrible  secret  that  struck  mo  down  that  night!  Bnt 
i  dare  not  tell — I  dare  not,  even  if  that  voice  from  the  doa«l 
Jdad  not  forbidden  me.  ]  love  him  so  dearly — so  dearly! 
Ak,  i)itiful  Lord!  let  him  never  know!  If  I  lost  him,  too, 
:F^hould  die!" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   baronet's   BRIDE. 

Tup:  winter  months  wore  by.  Spring  came,  and  tJiiM. 
that  most  devoted  of  lovers.  Sir  Eveiard  Kingsland,  ]«4- 
gered  in  Paris,  near  his  gray-eyed  divinity.  His  life  was 
no  dull  one  in  the  gayest  ca])ital  of  Europe.  He  had  hosts 
of  friends,  the  purse  of  Fortunatus,  tho  youth  and  beauty 
'.  «sf  a  denu-god.  Brilliant  Parisian  belles,  flashing  in  an- 
<  costral  diamonds,  with  the  blue  blood  of  the  old  rcfjlme  m 
their  delicate  veins,  showered  their  brightest  smiles,  theii- 
most  entrancing  glances,  upon  the  handsome  young  E«i- 
glishman  in  vain.  His  loyal  heart  never  swerved  in  its  al- 
legiance to  his  gray -eyed  (^ueen — the  love-light  that  lighted 
her  dear  face,  the  warm,  welcoming  kiss  of  her  cherry  lijis, 
were  worth  a  hundred  Pa;'isian  belies  with  their  ducal  coats 
of  arms.  "  Faithful  and  true  "  was  the  motto  on  his  seal; 
faithful  and  true  in  every  word  and  thought — true  as  the 
needle  to  the  North  Star — was  he  to  the  ludy  of  his  love. 


TH  K    B  A  WO  N  KT  iS    P.  I !  I  Di;. 


lift 


I 


Tlio  weeks  went,  swiftly  and  jjlcusaiitly  enough;  but  his 
red-letter  duy  was  the  Saturday  afternoon  that  brought  him 
to  his  darling.  And  she,  buried  among  her  dry-aa-dast 
sohool-books  and  classic  lore — how  siie  look'ed  forward  to 
the  weekly  day  of  grace  no  words  of  mine  can  tell. 

But  with  the  tirst  bright  days  of  April  canio  a  change. 
He  was  going  back  to  Englantl,  he  told  her,  one  Saturday 
afternoon,  as  they  sat,  lover-liice,  side  by  side,  in  the  i)riiii 
fculon.  She  gave  a  low  cry  at  the  words,  and  looked  nt 
him  with  wild,  wide  eyes. 

"  Going  to  England!     Going  to  leave  mo!" 

"  My  dearest,  it  is  for  your  sake  I  go,  and  I  will  bo  goo© 
but  a  little  while.  The  end  of  next  October  our  long  year 
of  waiting  ends,  and  before  the  Christmas  snow  ilies,  my 
darling  must  be  all  my  own.  It  is  to  j)iepare  for  onr  mar- 
riage 1  go." 

She  hid  her  glowing  face  on  his  shoulder. 

*'  I  would  make  Kingsland  Court  a  very  Paradise,  if  I 
could,  for  my  bright  little  queen.  As  I  can  not  make  it 
quite  Paradise,  I  will  do  what  I  can." 

"  Any  place  is  my  Paradise  so  that  you  are  there,  Ever- 
ard!" 

And  then  there  was  an  eloquent  silence — the  silence  that 
always  reigns  where  the  joy  is  too  intense  for  words  or 
amiles. 

*'  Landscape  gardeners  and  upholsterers  shall  wave  their 
magic  wands  and  work  their  nineteenth  century  miracles," 
he  said,  ;  presently,  reverting  to  his  project.  "  My  dear 
girPs  future  home  shall  be  a  very  bower  of  delights.  And, 
besides,"  hesitating  a  little,  "  1  want  to  see  my  mother. 
She  feels  herself  a  little  slighted,  1  am  afraid,  after  this 
winter's  absence." 

**  Ah,  your  mother!"  with  a  little  sigh.  "Will  she 
ever  like  me,  do  you  think,  Everard?  ller  letter  was  so 
cr)a,  so  formal,  so  chilling!" 

For  this  high-stepping  young  lady  who  had  ridden  at  the 
fox-hunt  with  reckless  daring,  who  was  so  regally  ujilifted 
and  imperious,  had  grown  very  humble  in  her  new  love. 
Not  that  there  is  anything  .strange  in  that,  for  the  haughti- 
est Cleopatra  that  ever  set  her  royal  heels  on  the  neck  of 
men  becomes  the  veriest  slave  the  moment  she  is  subju- 
gated by  the  grand  passion. 

Harrie  had  writtwi  to  my  lady  an  humble,  girlish,  ap- 


:ii 


f 


t  i 


\\ 


/IG 


THE    I5Aia)NKTo     I.IMDK. 


pealing'  littlt;  lottur,  and  luiil  rcuuivod  ilio  colilest  of  polite 
rcplios,  buiUiLil'iilly  writtoii,  with  tliu  "  bloody  liiitid  jwul 
lIio  KiiigsliKid  CTOist  cuiblazoiiLHl  proudly,  and  Lho  motio  of 
iho  house  \\\  good  old  iSorman  I'runch,  "  {Strikx'  ouco,  and 
strike  well/' 

Sinue  then  there  had  been  no  corrosi)ondenco.  Misa 
llunstlon  was  too  proud  to  sue  loi-  lier  favor,  had  hIio  been 
her  queen  as  well  as  her  mother-in-Iaw-eleet,  and  Sir  Iwer- 
ard  loved  her  too  sensitively  to  ex2)ose  her  to  a  possible 
rebiilL 

My  lady  was  unutterably  offended  by  her  son's  desertion 
of  a  whole  winter.  She  was  nothing  to  him  now — slie  who 
had  loved  him  so  long  and  so  dearly,  who  hail  boon  his  all 
for  two-and -twenty  years.  This  bold,  masculine  girl  with 
the  horrible  boy's  name  was  his  all  in  all  now. 

Sir  Evcrard  Kingsland  met  with  a  very  cold  reception 
from  his  lady  mother  upon  his  return  to  JJevonshire.  She 
listened  in  still  disdain  to  his  glowing  accounts  of  the  mar- 
vels the  summer  would  work  in  tlie  grand  old  place. 

*'  And  all  this  for  the  penniless  daughter  of  a  luilf-j)ay 
captain,"  she  thought^  scornfully;  "  and  Lady  Louise 
might  have  been  his  wife.  '^ 

Sir  Everard,  in  the  sublime  egotism  of  youth  and  happy 
love,  ran  heediossly  on. 

*'  You  and  Milly  shall  retain  your  old  rooms,  of  course,^' 
he  said,  "and  have  them  altered  or  not,  just  as  you 
choose.  Harriets  room  shall  be  in  the  south  wing — she 
likes  a  sunny,  southern  prospect — and  the  winter  and  sum- 
mer drawing-rooms  must  be  completely  refurnished:  and 
the  conservatory  has  been  sadly  neglected  of  late,  and  the 
oak  paneling  in  the  dining-room  wants  touching  up. 
Hadn't  you  better  give  all  the  orders  for  your  own  apart- 
ments yourself?     The  others  I  will  attend  to." 

*'  My  orders  are  already  given,"  Lady  Kingsland  said, 
with  frigid  hauteur.  "  My  jointure  house  is  to  be  fitted 
up.  Before  you  return  from  your  honey-moon  I  will  have 
quitted  Kingsland  Court  with  my  daughter.  Permit  Mil- 
dred and  me  to  retain  our  present  apartments  unaltered 
until  that  time;  then  the  future  Lady  Kingsland  can  have 
the  old  rooms  disfigured  with  as  much  gilding  and  stucco 
and  ormolu  as  she  pleases." 

The  young  man's  fair  face  blackened  with  an  angry 


Till']    I!AR0NKT*S    lUJTDK. 


olite 

iind 

to  of 

und 


)) 


ii: 


]Jut 


Boowl  as  lio  listojiod   to  tlio  tauntinpf,  apitofiil  spciecli. 
lie  rostraiiicd  himself. 

"  'riioro  is  lu)  necessity  for  your  witliilrawul  from  your 
old  home.  11'  you  leave,  it  will  bo  against  my  ©xpre.sM 
wish.  Neitiier  my  wito  uor  I  could  ever  desire  such  u 
sLe[)." 

*'  Your  wife!''  llcsr  j)roud  lips  trembled  and  her  dark 
eyes  Hashed.  "  J)ocs  she  take  state  u[)on  herself  alreaily? 
To  you  and  your  wife.  Sir  Kverard  Kingsiand,  1  return  my 
humble  thanks,  but  even  Kingslaud  (Jourt  is  not  largo 
enough  for  two  mistresses.  1  will  never  stand  aside  and 
see  the  pauper  daughter  of  the  half-i)ay  captain  rule  where 
I  ruled  once." 

She  swept  majestically  out  of  the  room  as  she  launched 
lier  last  smarting  shaft,  leaving  her  son,  with  Hashing  eyes 
and  face  of  suppressed  rage,  to  recover  his  temper  as  best 
he  might. 

"  Jle  will  never  ask  me  again,"  she  thought.  *'  I  know 
his  nature  too  well.'* 

And  ho  did  not.  lie  went  about  his  work  with  stern  de- 
termination, never  consulting  her,  never  asking  advice,  or 
informing  her  of  any  project — always  deferential,  always 
stridiously  polite.  IJut  the  "half-pay  captain's  pauper 
daughter,"  from  that  hour,  was  as  a  wall  of  brass  between 
the  haughty  mother  and  the  proud  son. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  at  the  Court  who  made 
lip,  by  the  warmth  of  her  greeting  and  the  fervor  of  her 
sympathy,  for  any  lack  on  his  mother's  part.  It  was  Miss 
Sybilla  Silver,  of  course,  who  somehow  had  grown  to  be  as 
mach  a  fixture  there  as  the  marble  and  bronze  statues  in 
the  domed  hall. 

iShe  had  written  to  find  her  friends  in  Plymouth,  or  she 
said  so,  and  failed,  and  she  had  managed  to  make  herself 
so  useful  to  my  lady  that  my  lady  was  very  glad  to  keep 
her.  She  could  make  caps  like  a  Parisian  milliner;  she 
could  dress  her  exquisitely;  she  could  read  for  hours  in  the 
sweetest  and  clearest  of  voices,  without  one  yawn,  the  dull- 
est of  dull  High  Church  novels.  She  could  answer  notes 
aod  sing  like  a  siren,  and  she  could  embroider  prie-ch'eu 
chairs  and  table-covers,  and  slippers  and  handkerchiefs, 
sad  darn  point  lace  like  Fairy  Fingers  herself. 

She  was  a  treasure,  this  ex-lad  in  velveteen,  and  my  lady 
Cduotod  it  a  lucky  day  that  brought  lier  to   Kingsland. 


'f^ 


II! 


•fi    ' 


.118 


TTTTi    rxnONKT  8    T^RTDE. 


IJiit  MiH8  Sybilliv  buloni^cil  to  my  ludy'sson,  and  not  to  my 
l;i;.iy.  To  Uio  young  lord  of  Kiii^jHluiul  her  jiUogijinco  wag 
lino,  and  at  liis  bi(Ulin<;  Kho  wus  roiuly,  at  a  moniont'ti 
nolico,  to  (loscrt  tliu  fcuiiUo  Htandard. 

Mir  EvoranI,  who  took  a  kintily  interest  in  tlio  dashing 
damsel  with  the  coal-bhick  hair  and  eves,  wlio  had  sliot  tho 
jwaelier,  put  the  (|iu'HLioii  plump  one  day: 

"  My  mother  ami  yistei  leave  before  tho  eadol  the  year, 
Sybilla.     Will  you  desert  me,  too?" 

"  Novor,  Sir  Evorard!*'  The  black  eyes  dropi)ed,  and  a 
high  color  rose  in  tho  dusky  cheeks.  "  I  will  never  desert, 
you  while  you  wish  mo  to  stay.'' 

"  I  should  like  it,  I  confess.  It  will  bo  horribly  dreary 
for  my  briilo  to  come  home  to  a  house  where  there  is  n<* 
one  to  welcome  her  but  the  servants.  If  my  mother  caii 
spare  you,  Sybilla,  I  wish  you  would  stay.*' 

As  she  had  done  once  before,  and  ere  ho  could  provottt 
her,  she  lifted  his  hand  to  her  li])s. 

"  Sybilla  belongs  to  you.  Sir  EverardI  Command,  anC 
she  will  obey." 

lie  laughed,  but  ho  also  reddened  as  ho  drew  his  haaC 
hastily  away. 

"  Oh,  pooh!  don't  bo  melodramatic!  There  is  no  ques- 
tion of  commanding  and  obeying  about  it.  You  are  frae 
to  do  as  you  please.  If  you  choose  to  remain,  give  Lady 
Kingsland  ))roper  notice.  If  you  prefer  to  go,  why,  1 
must  look  out  for  some  one  to  take  your  place.  Don't  be 
in  a  hurry — there's  plenty  of  time  to  decide." 

rie  swung  o(!  and  left  her.  He  was  coolly  indifferent  t« 
her  shining  beauty,  her  velvet  black  eyes,  her  glossy,  ravea 
ringlets,  the  tropical  luxuriance  of  her  Creole  charms. 

She  looked  after  him  with  a  snaky  gleam  in  those  weird 
black  eyes. 

"  Plenty  of  time  to  decide,"  she  repeated,  with  a  sloif^ 
evil  smile  curling  her  thin  lips.  "  My  good  Sir  Everard,  1 
decided  long  ago!  Marry  your  fox-hunting  bride — bring 
her  home.  Sybilla  Silver  will  be  here  to  welcome  her, 
never  fear!" 

The  baronet  stayed  three  weeks  in  England — then  re- 
turned impatiently  to  Paris.  Of  course  the  rapture  of  the 
meeting  more  than  repaid  the  pain  of  parting. 

She  was  growing  more  beautiful  every  day,  tho  infatuated 
young  man  thought,  over  her  books;   and  the  sun  itf 


THK     RAKONETH     HRIDF. 


IV. 


Wrnucii  uhouo  on  noiliiii-j;  Iiulf  m  lovely  ti-t  Uiiai  U\L  nlctulur 
litiuisul,  in  her  gray  seiiuol  iiuiionu  urid  [>rini,  biuek  silk 
apron. 

'J'lio  Riunnier  wont.  Sir  Evorurd  was  buck  unci  fortU 
aorusi}  tliu  Cluwinal,  like  un  insunu  luiniun  pendulum,  unci 
tlio  work  ivent  bravely  on!  King-slanil  wu.s  bein^'  truna- 
Wnied — the  huulsiiapu  giirden(M'.s  and  the  Jionduii  npliol- 
aton.Td  had  r('r/v  liUincliv,  and  iL  wad  the  story  of  Alaudin'rf 
Palace  over  a<,'ain.  Sir  Everanl  rubbed  hi.s  golden  lauii>, 
attd,  lo!  mighty  genii  rose  uj)  and  worked  wondera. 

September  came — the  niira(jle8  ceased.  Even  money 
und  men  could  do  no  more.     October  came. 

Sir  Everard's  year  of  probation  wad  expired.  The  lijv- 
«reiid  Cyrus  Green  overcame  heroically  his  horror  of  aea- 
aicknoss  and  steamers,  and  went  to  Paris  in  person  for  his 
ward.  As  plain  Miss  Ilunsilen,  without  a  shilling  to  bless 
lierself  with,  the  lioverend  Cyrus  would  not  by  any  means 
liave  thought  this  extreme  step  necessary;  but  fur  the  future 
JLady  Kingsland  to  travel  aione  was  not  for  an  instant  to 
De  thought  of.  So  he  went,  and  the  first  week  of  Is'ovem- 
toer  he  brouglit  her  home. 

Miss  lluusden — taller,  more  stately,  more  beautiful  thuii 
«Yer — was  very  still  and  sad,  this  first  anniversary  of  her 
ifttther's  (leath.  Lady  Kingsland,  when  she  and  Mildred 
laalled — for  they  did,  of  course — was  rather  impressed  by 
the  stately  girl  in  mourning,  whoso  fair,  jn'oud  face  and 
ttttlm,  gray  eyes  met  hers  so  unflinchingly.  It  was  "  Creek 
meets  Greek  '*  hero;  neither  would  yield  an  inch.  Cer- 
tainly Miss  Ilunsden  was  to  blame,  but  Miss  Hunsden  was 
as  proud  a  girl  as  ever  traced  back  her  genealogy  to  the 
Conquest,  and  had  met  with  one  decided  rebuil'  already. 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  early  in  December — Sir 
Everard  would  not  wait,  and  Harrie  seemed  to  have  no 
will  left  but  his.  Once  she  had  feebly  uttered  some  re- 
monstrances, but  he  had  imperatively  cut  her  short. 

"  I  have  waited  a  year  already;  I  will  not  wait  one  hour 
longer  than  1  can  possibly  help,  now." 

So  this  high-handed  young  tyrant  had  everything  his 
own  way.  I'ho  preparations  were  hurried  on  with  aniaz- 
mg  haste;  the  day  was  named,  the  bride-maids  and  guests 
bidden. 

Miss  HuQsdea's  young  lady  friends  were  few  and  far  be^ 


! 


'  : 


.1  ! 


120 


THE    r.AKONET  S    HKIDK. 


,'c 


if:     !: 


twecn,  and  Mildred  Kingsland  and  the  rector's  sister  and 
twelve-year-old  daughter  were  to  comprise  the  whole  list. 

The  wedding-day  dawned — a  sullen,  overcast,  threaten- 
ing December  day.  A  watery  sun  looked  out  of  a  lower- 
ing sky,  and  then  retreated  altogether,  and  a  leaden  dull- 
ness overspread  the  whole  lirnianeut.  An  icy  wind  curdled 
vour  blood  and  tweaked  your  nose,  and  feuthery  snow- 
llakes  whirled  drearily  through  the  opaque  gloom. 

The  charity  children,  who  strewed  the  road  with  tlower.s, 
had  their  tender  visages  mottled  and  purple  with  cold, 
and  the  rector  and  his  assistant  shivered  in  their  surplices. 

The  church  was  full,  and  silks  rustled  and  bright  eyes 
flashed  inquisitively,  and  people  wondered  who  that  tail, 
foreign- looking  person  beside  my  lady  might  bo. 

It  was  Sybilla  Silver,  gorgeous  in  golden  silk,  with  her 
black  eyes  lighted  with  cruel,  inward  exultation,  and  who 
glared  almost  iierccly  upon  the  beautiful  bride. 

My  lady,  magnificent  in  her  superb  disdain  of  all  these 
childish  proceedings,  stood  by  and  acknowledged  in  her 
heart  of  hearts  that  if  beauty  and  grace  be  any  excuse  for 
folly,  her  son  had  those  excuses. 

Lovely  as  a  vision,  with  her  pure,  pale,  passionless  face, 
her  clear,  sweet  eyes,  Harriet  Hunsden  swept  up  the  aisle 
in  her  rich  bridal  robes,  her  lloating  lace,  and  virginal 
orange-blossoms. 

The  bridegroom's  eyes  kindled  with  unutterable  admira- 
tion and  pride  and  love  as  he  took  his  place  by  her  side, 
he  himself  looking  as  noble  and  gallant  a  gentleman  as 
wide  England  could  boast. 

It  was  over — she  was  his  wife!  They  had  registered 
their  names,  they  drove  back  to  the  rectory,  the  congratu- 
lations oU'ered,  the  breakfast  eaten,  the  toast  drunk.  She 
was  upstairs  dressing  for  her  journey;  the  carriage  and  the 
bridegroom  were  waiting  impatiently  below. 

Mrs  Green  hovered  about  her  with  tearful  eyes  and  nui- 
tronly  solicitude,  and  at  the  last  moment  Harriet  Hung  her- 
self impetuously  upon  her  neck  and  broke  cat  into  hys 
tcrical  crying. 

"  Forgive  me!"  she  sobbed.  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Green,  I  never 
had  a  mother!" 

Then  she  drew  down  her  veil  and  ran  out  of  the  room 
before  the  good  woman  could  bpeak.  Sir  Everard  was 
waiting  in  the  hall,     llo  drew  her  hand  under  his  arm  and 


■  .1!'    ' 

I' 


TUE    r.ARONET'S    RJITDF. 


131 


)Yii, 


hiirried  her  away.  Mrs.  Green  got  clown- stairs  ouly  ia 
time  to  see  her  in  the  carriage.  She  leaned  forward  to 
wave  her  gloved  hand. 

**  Good-bye  I"  she  said  —  "good-bye,  my  good,  kind 
friend!" 

Then  the  bridegroom  sprung  lightly  in  beside  her,  the 
carriage  door  closed,  the  horses  started,  and  the  happy  pair 
wei-e  oiJ  for  the  month  ot  banishment  civilized  society  im- 
peratively requires. 

***  *  *  *  *  * 

Sybilla  Silver  went  back  to  the  Court  alone.  My  lady, 
in  sullen  dignity,  took  her  daughter  and  went  strtiight  to 
ber  jointure  house  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  village. 

She  stood  in  the  center  of  a  lengthy  suite  of  a])artments 
— the  new  Lady  Kingsland's — opening  one  into  the  other 
in  a  long  vista  of  splendor.  She  took  a  portrait  out  of  her 
breast  and  gazed  at  it  with  brightly  glittering  eyes. 

**  A  whole  year  has  passed,  my  mother,"  she  said,  slowly, 
"  and  nothing  has  been  done.  But  Sybilla  will  keep  her 
oath.  Sir  Jasper  Kingsland's  only  son  shall  meet  his  doom. 
It  is  through  //('/•  1  will  strike;  that  blow  will  be  doubly 
bitter.  Before  this  day  twelvemonth  dawns  these  two,  so 
loving,  so  hopeful,  so  happy  now,  shall  part  more  horribly 
and  minaturally  than  man  and  wife  ever  parted  before!" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


^»o 


MR.    PARMALEE'S   LITTLE   MYSTERY. 

KiXGSLAND  Court  had  from  time  immemorial  been 
one  of  the  show-places  of  the  county,  Thursday  being 
always  set  y.^^art  as  the  visitors'  day. 

The  portfy  old  housekeeper  used  to  play  cicerone,  but 
the  portly  old  housekeeper,  growijig  portlier  and  older 
everyday,  got  in  time  quite  unable  to  waddle  up  and  d«ftwn 
and  pant  out  gasping  explanations  to  the  st'-angers. 

So  Miss  Sybilla  Silver,  with  her  usual  good  nature,  came 
to  the  rescue,  got  the  history  of  the  old  house,  and  the  old 
pictures,  and  cabinets,  and  curiositipt:,  ? /id  suits  of  armor 
and  things  by  heart,  and  took  Mrs.  Comlit's  place. 

Visitors,  as  a  general  thing,  stood  rather  in  awe  of  the 
tall  and  stately  young  lady,  in  her  sweeping  black  silk 
robes,  her  great  black  eyes,  and  Assyrian  style  generally. 


■W 


I 


lit'     !' 


C^llJ 


I  I 


133 


THE    BARONETS    BRTDE. 


and  were  apt  to  mistake  her  at  first  for  the  lady  of  the 
manor. 

And  in  spite  of  Miss  Silver's  ceaseless  smiles,  and  per- 
fect willingness  to  oblige  and  bo  usofulj  it  was  a  remarka- 
ble fact  that  every  servant  in  the  house  hated  Jier  like 
poison,  excepting  two  tall  footmen  and  a  stable-boy,  wh® 
were  madiy  in  love  with  her. 

The  firist  Thursday  after  the  marriage  of  Sir  Everard 
there  c<;me  sauntering  up  to  the  Court,  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon,  a  tall  young  gentleman,  eiuoking  a  cigar, 
and  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

lie  was  not  only  tall,  but  uncommonly  tall,  uncommoa- 
\y  lanky  and  loose-boned,  and  his  clothes  had  the  general 
air  of  being  thrown  on  with  a  pitchfork. 

lie  wore  a  redundance  of  jewelry,  in  the  shape  of  a 
eonple  of  yards  of  watcli-chuin,  a  huge  seal  ring  on  eadi 
littio  finger,  and  a  Ihuiiig  diamond  breastpin  of  doubtful 
quality. 

His  clothes  were  light,  his  hair  was  light,  his  ej-'es  were 
light.  He  v/as  utterly  devoid  of  hirsute  a[)pendages,  and 
withal  he  was  tolerably  good-looking  and  unmistakably 
wido  awake. 

He  threw  away  his  cigar  as  he  reached  the  house,  and 
astonished  the  understrapper  who  admitted  him  by  pre- 
senting his  card  with  a  nourishing  bow. 

"  Jest  give  that  to  the  boss,  my  man,^'  said  this  pei'- 
sonage,  coolly.  **  1  understand  you  allow  strangers  to  ex- 
plore this  old  castle  of  your'n,  and  I've  come  quite  a  pieoe 
for  ihat  express  purpose."* 

The  footman  gazed  at  him,  then  at  the  card,  in  sheer 
bewilderment  a  moment,  and  then  went  and  sought  o«t 
Miss  Silver. 

"  Blessed  if  it  isn't  that  "Morican  that's  stopping  at  th« 
^ine,  and  that  asked  so  many  questions  about  Sir  Ever° 
=i.rd  and  my  lady,  of  Dawson,  last  night,"  he  said. 

Sybilla  took  the  card  curiously.  It  was  a  hond-fide  pieco 
^f  pasteboard,  printed  all  over  in  little,  stumpy  capitalsy; 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON    PARMALEE, 

Photographic  Artist, 

Ko.    1060  Broadway, 

Upstairs. 


the 

)er- 
ka- 
ike 


THE    BARONETS    BRIDE, 


1133 


Misa  Silver  laughed. 

*'  The  gentleman  wants  tc  see  the  house,  does  he?  Of 
course  ho  must  see  it,  then,  Iliggins.  And  he  was  ask- 
ing questions  of  Diuvson  hii;t  night  at  the  inn?'^ 

'  Eaps  of  questions.,  Mi.'s  fSilver,  as  bold  as  brass,  all 
about  Sir  Evcrurd  aiul  my  lady — our  young  lady,  you 
know.     Shall  1  fetch  hiin  up?" 

*' Certainly." 

There  chanced  to  be  no  other  visitor  at  the  Court,  and 
Sybilla  received  Mr.  Parnialee  with  infinite  smiles  and  con- 
descension. The  tall  American  looked  rather  impressed 
by  the  majestic  young  lady  with  the  great  black  eyes  and 
superbly  handsome  face,  but  not  in  the  least  embarrassed. 

'■''  Beg  your  pardon,  miss/^  ho  said,  politely;  '*  sorry  to 
put  you  to  so  much  trouble,  but  I  calculated  on  seeing  this 
old  pile  before  I  left  these  parts,  and  as  they  told  mo  down 
at  the  tavern  this  was  the  day — " 

"  It  is  not  tlu!  :^ lightest  trouble,  1  assure  you,*'  Miss  Sil- 
ver interposed,  graciously.  "  1  am  only  too  happy  to  have 
a  stranger  come  and  break  the  quiet  monotony  of  our  life 
here.  And,  besides,  it  allords  me  double  pleasure  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  an  American — a  })eople  I  intensely  ad- 
mire. You  are  the  first  I  ever  had  the  ha2)pines8  of  meet- 
ing." 

This  was  doing  the  gracious  to  an  u!ilieard-of  extent; 
but  the  gentleman  addressed  did  not  appear  in  the  least 
overcome. 

"  Want  to  know!"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  in  a  tone  be- 
tokening no  earthly  emotion  whatever.  "  It's  odd,  too. 
Plenty  folks  round  our  section  come  across;  but  I  sup- 
pose they  didn't  happen  along  down  here.  Splendid  place 
this;  fine  growing  land  all  round;  but  1  see  most  of  it  is 
let  run  wild.  If  all  that  there  timber  was  cut  down  and 
the  stumps  burned  out  and  the  ground  turned  into  past- 
ure, you  hain't  no  idea  what  an  Improvement  it  would  be. 
But  you  Britishers  don't  go  in  for  progress  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  This  old  castle,  now — it's  two  hundred  years 
old,  I'll  be  bound!" 

"More  than  that — twice  as  old.  Will  you  come  and 
look  at  the  pictures  now?  Being  an  artist,  of  course  you 
will  like  to  see  the  pictures  first.  The  collection  is  su- 
^rb!" 

Mr.  Parmalee  followed  the  young  lady  to  the  long  plot- 


m 


Hi 


lu 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


ure-gallery,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  whistling  softly 
to  himself,  and  eying  everything  with  his  keen,  shrewd, 
light-blue  eyes. 

"  Must  have  cost  a  sight  of  money,  all  these  fixings,"  h« 
remarked,  thoughtfully.  "  I  know  how  them  statues  and 
busts  reckons  up.  This  here  baronet  must  be  a  powerful 
rich  man?" 

"  He  is,"  said  Miss  Silver,  quietly. 

Mr.  Parmalee  fell  into  thought — came  out  of  it — looked 
at  Sybilla  curiously. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  miss,  but  air  you  one  of  the 
family?" 

*'  No,  sir,"  flushing  a  little.  "  I  am  Lady  Kingsland's 
companion. " 

"  Oh,  a  domestic!"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  as  if  to  himself. 
"  Who'd  a'  thought  it:  Lady  Kingsland's  companion? 
Which  of  'em?    There's  two,  ain't  there?" 

"  Sir  Everard's  mother  has  left  Kingsland  Court.  1 
am  companion  to  Sir  Everard's  wife." 

"Ah!  jest  so!  Got  married  lately,  didn't  he!  Might 
1  ask  your  name,  miss?" 

"1  am  Sybilla  Silver." 

"  Thauky,"  said  Mr,  Parmalee,  with  a  satisfied  nod. 
**  So  much  easier  getting  along  when  you  know  a  person's 
name.  Married  a  Miss  Hunsden,  didn't  he — the  bar- 
onet?" 

"  Yes.     Miss  Harriet  Hunsden. " 

*'  That's  her.  Lived  with  her  pa,  an  old  oflBcer  in  the 
army,  didn't  she?    Used  to  be  over  there  in  America?" 

"Yes."  Sybilla  caught  her  breath  suddenly.  "Did 
you  know  her?" 

"  Wa-al,  no,"  replied  Mr.  Parmalee,  with  a  drawl,  and 
a  queer  sidelong  look  at  the  lady;  "  1  can't  say  I  did. 
They  told  me  down  to  the  tavern  all  about  it.  Handsome 
young  lady,  wasn't  she?  One  of  your  tall-stepping,  high- 
mettled  sort?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  her  pa's  dead,  and  he  left  her  nothing?  Was 
poor  as  a  church-mouse,  that  old  officer,  wasn't  he?" 

"  Cajitain  Hunsden  had  only  his  pay,"  answered  Miss 
Silver,  wondering  where  this  catechism  was  to  end. 

"  And  they've  gone  off  on  a  bridal  tower?  Now  when 
do  you  expect  them  back?''' 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


135 


•'  In  a  month.  Are  you  particularly  desirous  of  seeing 
Sir  Everard  or  Lady  Kingsland?"  asked  Sybilla,  sudden- 
ly and  sharply. 

Again  the  tall  American  eyed  her  askance. 

"Well,  yes/'  he  said,  slowly,  "  I  am.  I*m  collecting 
photographic  views  of  all  your  principal  buildings  over 
here,  and  I'm  going  to  ask  8ir  Everard  to  let  mo  take  this 
)i)lace,  inside  and  out.  These  rooms  are  tiie  most  scrump- 
tious concerns  I've  seen  lately,  and  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel  is  some  pumpkins,  too.  Oh,  these  are  t^--:  pictures, 
are  they?    What  a  jolly  lot!" 

Mr.  Parmalee  became  immediately  absorbed  by  the  hosts 
of  dead-and-gone  Kingslands  looking  down  from  the  oak- 
paneled  waHs.  Miss  Silver  fluently  gave  him  names,  and 
dates,  and  histories. 

"  Seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  l^armalee,  "  those  old  fellows 
didn't  die  in  their  beds— many  of  'em.  What  with  bat- 
tles, and  duels,  and  high  treason,  and  sich,  they  all  came 
to  unpleasant  ends.     Where's  the  present  Kingsland's?" 

"  Sir  Everard 's  portrait  is  in  the  library." 

"  And  her  ladyship — his  wife?" 

"  We  have  no  picture  of  Lady  Kingsland  as  yet." 

Mr.  Parmalee's  inscrutable  face  told  nothing — whether 
he  was  disappointed  or  not.  He  followed  Miss  Silver  all 
over  the  house,  saw  everything  worth  seeing,  and  took  the 
"  hull  concern,"  as  he  expressed  it,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  short  winter  afternoon  was  done  before  the  sights 
were. 

"  Should  like  to  come  again,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee.  "  A 
fellow  couldn't  see  all  that's  worth  seeing  round  here  in 
less  than  a  month.  Might  1  step  up  again  to-morrow. 
Miss  Silver?" 

Miss  Silver  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  Thursday  is  visitors'  day,  and  I  dare 
not  infringe  the  rules.  You  may  come  every  Thursday 
while  you  stay,  and  meantime  the  gardeners  will  show  you 
over  the  grounds  whenever  you  desire.  How  long  do  you 
remain,  Mr.  Parmalee?" 

"  That's  oncertain,"  replied  the  photographic  artist, 
eautiously.  "  Perhaps  not  long,  perhaps  longer.  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you,  miss,  for  all  the  bother  I've  made 
you." 


!■  hi 

I" 


lu 


THE    BAKONliT'S    IJHTDE. 


"  Not  at  all,'*  said  Sybilla,  politely.  "  I  shall  be  ka»py 
at  any  time  to  give  you  any  information  iu  laiy  power. 

"  Thanky.     Good -evening.'* 

The  tall  American  swung  off  with  long  strides.  The 
young  lady  watched  him  out  of  sight. 

"  There  is  more  in  this  than  meets  the  eye/'  she  thought. 
"  That  man  knows  something  of  Harriet — Lady  Kiugslaud. 
I'll  cultivate  him  for  my  lady's  sake." 

After  that  Mr.  Farnuile3  and  Miss  Silver  met  frequent- 
ly. In  her  walks  to  the  village  it  got  to  be  the  regular 
thing  for  the  American  to  become  her  escort,  and  almost 
every  day  found  him  meandering  aimlessly  about  the 
grounds. 

He  was  rather  clever  at  pencil-drawing,  and  made 
numerous  sketches  of  the  house,  and  took  the  likenesses  of 
all  the  servants.  He  even  set  up  a  temporary  photo- 
graphic place  down  in  the  village,  and  announced  himself 
ready  to  "  take  "  the  whole  po2)ulation  at  "  half  a  dollar  " 
Q  head. 

'*  There's  nothing  like  making  hny  while  the  sun  shines," 
temarked  Mr.  Parmalee  to  himsell'.  "  1  may  as  well  do  a 
little  stroke  of  business,  to  keep  my  hand  in,  while  I  wait 
lor  my  lady.  There  ain't  no  telling  how  this  little  specu- 
iation  of  mine  may  turn  out,  after  all." 

So  the  weeks  went  by,  and  every  Thursday  found  the 
American  exploring  the  house.  He  was  a  curious  study 
to  Sybilla  as  he  went  along,  his  hands  invariably  in  his 
pockets,  his  hat  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  head,  whistling 
iSoftly  and  meditatively. 

Every  day  she  became  more  convinced  he  knew  some- 
thing of  Harrie  Hunsden's  American  antecedents,  and 
ever  day  she  grew  more  gracious.  But  if  Mr.  Parmalee 
had  his  secrets,  he  knew  how  to  keep  them.  While  fully 
appreciating  the  handsome  young  lady's  showering  smiles, 
and  evidently  considerably  iu  love,  he  yet  never  dropped 
the  faintest  clew. 

"  Can  ho  ever  have  been  a  lover  of  hers  in  Now  York?" 
Sybilla  asked  herself.  "  I  know  she  was  there  two  years 
at  school. " 

But  it  seemed  improbable.  Harrie  could  not  have  been 
over  thirteen  or  fom  iocn  at  the  time.  She  could  discover 
ftothing.     Mr.  Parnnilye  k:'pt  his  own  counsel  like  wax. 

The  honey-moon  month  passed — the  January  day  that 


THE    BAIIONET.S    BRfDE. 


127 


The 


)f 


was  to  bring  the  happy  pair  liome  arrivcil.  In  the  golden 
sunset  of  a  gloriou?;  wiiiiir  (li),y  Iho  carriap;e  rollod  up  the 
avenue,  and  Sir  Everard  liumlud  Luily  Kingaland  out. 

Tho  long  lino  of  servants  were  drawn  up  in  the  hall, 
with  Mrs.  Comlifc  and  Miss  Silver  at  their  head.  High 
and  happy  as  a  yaung  prince,  Sir  Everard  strode  in  among 
thorn,  vvitii  his  bride  on  liis  jirni.  And  she — Sybilla  Silver 
— set  her  teelh  as  she  looked  at  her,  so  gloriously  radiant 
in  her  wedded  bliss.  Slie  seemed  to  have  received  a  new 
baptism  of  beauty.  She  looiced  a  brilliant  young  queen 
by  royal  right  of  that  radiant  loveliness. 

Mr.  Parmalee,  lounging  among  the  trees,  caught  one 
glimpse  of  that  exquisite  face  as  it  flashed  by. 

"  13y  George!  ain't  she  a  stunner?  Xot  a  bit  lilvc  t'other 
one,  with  her  black  eyes  and  tarry  hair.  I've  seen  quad- 
roon girls,  down  South,  whiter  than  Miss  Silver.  And, 
what's  more,  she  isn't  a  bit  like — like  the  lady  in  Loudon, 
that  she'd  ought  to  look  like." 

Sybilla  saw  very  little  of  Sir  Everard  or  his  bride  that 
evening.  They  dined  fefe-a-tcfc,  and,  after  their  journey, 
retired  early.  But  the  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  she 
broached  the  subject  of  Mr.  Parmaleo. 

"  Wants  to  take  photographic  views  of  the  place,  does 
he?"  said  Sir  Everard,  carelessly.  "  Is  he  too  timid  to 
speak  for  himself,  Sybilla?  His  countrymen,  as  a  rule, 
are  not  addicted  to  bashfulness." 

"  Mr.  Parmaiee  is  not  in  tho  least  bashful.  He  merely 
labors  under  the  delusion  that  a  petition  j)roffered  by  me 
can  not  fail." 

"Oh,  the  fellow  is  welcome!"  the  baronet  said,  in- 
differently. "  Let  him  amuse  himself,  by  all  means.  H 
the  views  are  good,  1  will  have  some  myself. " 

Mr.  Parmaiee  presented  himself  in  the  course  of  the 
day.  It  was  hopelessly  wet  and  wintery;  but,  with  placid 
contempt  for  the  elements,  the  American,  shielded  by  a 
huge  cotton  umbrella,  stalked  up  to  the  Court. 

Sir  Everard  received  him  politely  in  the  library. 

'*  Most  assuredly,  Mr. — oh,  Parmaiee.  Take  the  views, 
of  course.  I  am  glad  you  admire  Kingsland.  You  have 
been  making  some  sketches  already.  Miss  Silver  tells  me." 

Miss  Silver  herself  had  ushered  the  gentleman  in,  and 
now  stood  liugeringly  by  the  door-way.      My  lady  sav 


!  ; 

I  ; 


I   uf 


/^ 


'iin 


m 


■1  * 


'U 


t: 


128 


THE    BAKONET  S    P.TirDE. 


watch injr  the  ceaseless  niiii  with  iriilolent  eyes,  holilmg  a 
novel  in  lier  iii\),  and  looking  very  serene  and  handsome. 

'*  Well,  yes,"  Mi-.  Parmuleo  admitted,  glancing  modest- 
ly at  the  plethoric  portfolio  he  carried  under  his  arm. 
"  Would  your  lordship  mind  taking  a  look  at  them?  I've 
got  some  uncommon  neat  viess  of  our  American  scenery, 
too — Mammoth  Cave,  Niagry  Falls,  White  Mountains, 
and  so  on.     Might  help  to  pass  a  rainy  afternoon. " 

Sir  Everard  laughed  good-naturedly.  Ilo  was  so  su- 
premely blessed  himself  that  he  quite  forgot  to  be  proud, 
and  the  afternoon  was  hopelessly  wet. 

"  Very  true,  Mr.  Parmalee;  it  might.  Let  us  see  your 
American  views,  then.     Taken  by  yourself,  I  presume?" 

"  Yes,  sir!"  responded  the  artist,  with  emiDhasis. 
"  Every  one  of  'em;  and  done  justice  to.     Look  a-here!" 

lie  opened  his  portfolio  and  spread  his  "  views  '*  out. 

Lady  Kingsland  arose  with  languid  grace  and  crossed 
over.  Her  husband  seated  her  beside  him  with  a  loving 
smile.  Her  back  was  partly  turned  to  the  American, 
whom  she  had  met  without  the  faintest  shade  of  recogni- 
tion. 

Sybilla  Silver,  eager  and  expectant  of  she  knew  not 
what,  lingered  and  looked  likewise. 

The  "  views  "  weia  really  very  good,  and  there  was  an 
abundance  of  them — White  Mountain  and  Hudson  River 
Gcenory,  Niagara,  Nahant,  Southern  and  Western  scenes. 
Then  he  produced  photographic  portraits  of  all  the  Ameri- 
can celebrities — presidents,  statesmen,  authors,  actors,  and 
artists. 

Lady  Kingsland  looked  at  these  latter  with  considerable 
hiterest.  Some  of  the  actors  she  had  seen;  many  of  the 
authors  she  had  read. 

Mr.  Parmalee  watched  her  from  under  intent  brows  as 
she  took  them  daintily  up  in  her  slender,  jeweled  fingers 
one  by  one. 

1  have  a  few  portraits  here,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 

painted  on  ivory,  of  American  ladies  remarkable  for 
their  beauty.     Here  they  are. " 

He  took  out  five,  presenting  them  one  by  one  to  Sir 
Everard.  He  had  not  presumed  to  address  Lady  Kings- 
land  directly.  The  first  was  a  little  Southern  quadroon; 
the  second  a  bright-looking  young  squaw. 


i( 


'V 


Tiie  baronet  laughed. 


THE    baronet's    I'.RIDE. 


t39 


*'  These  are  your  American  ladies,  are  they?  Pretty 
enough  to  bo  ladies,  certainly.  Look,  Ilarrio!  Isn't  that 
Indian  face  exquisite?" 

Ho  passed  them  to  his  wife.  The  third  was  an  actress, 
the  fourth  a  dansciisc.  All  were  beautiful.  With  the 
last  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Parmalee  paused,  and  the  first  change 
Sybilla  had  ever  seen  cross  his  face  crossed  it  then. 

"  This  one  1  prize  most  of  all,'*  he  said,  speaking  slowly 
and  distinctly,  and  looking  furtively  at  my  lady.  '*  This 
lady's  story  was  the  saddest  story  I  ever  heard.'- 

Sybilla  looked  eagerly  across  the  baronet's  shoulder  for 
a  second.  It  was  a  lovely  face,  pure  and  child-like,  with 
great,  innocent  blue  eyes  and  wavy  brown  hair — the  face 
of  a  girl  of  sixteen. 

"  It  is  very  pretty,"  the  baronet  said,  carelessly,  and 
passed  it  to  his  wife. 

Lady  Kingsland  took  it  quite  carelessly.  The  next  in- 
stant she  had  turned  sharply  around  and  looked  Mr. 
Parmalee  full  in  the  face. 

The  American  had  evidently  expected  it,  for  he  had 
glanced  away  abruptly,  and  begun  hustling  his  pictures 
back  into  his  portfolio.  Sybilla  could  see  he  was  flushed 
dark  red.     She  turned  to  my  lady.     She  was  deathly  j)ale. 

"  Did  you  paint  those  portraits,  too?"  she  aslvcd,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time. 

"  No,  marm — my  lady,  I  mean.  1  collected  these  as 
curiosities.  One  of  'em — the  one  you're  looking  at — was 
given  me  by  the  original  herself." 

The  picture  dropped  from  my  lady's  hand  as  if  it  had 
been  red-hot.  Mr.  Parmalee  bounded  forward  and  picked 
it  up  with  imperturbable  sang  froid. 

"  1  value  this  most  of  all  my  collection.  I  knew  the 
lady  well.     I  wouldn't  lose  it  for  any  amount  of  money." 

My  lady  arose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window,  and 
the  hue  of  her  face  was  the  hue  of  death.  Sybilla  Siirer's 
glittering  eyes  went  from  face  to  face. 

"  1  reckon  I'll  be  going  now,"  Mr.  Parmalee  remarked. 
"  The  rain  seems  to  hold  up  a  little.  I'll  be  along  to- 
morrow. Sir  Everard,  to  take  those  views.  Much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  kindness.     Good-day." 

He  glanced  furtively  at  the  stately  woman  by  the  win- 
dow, standing  still  as  if  turning  to  stone.  But  she  neithol 
looked  nor  moved  nor  spoke. 

5 


(f 


■'I 

ill 


180 


'i'lll']    JiAUOiSKT  li    DUIDIi. 


|5  J  '; 


I      I 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 


IN   THE   PICTUKE-GALLERY. 


Mr.  Pakmalee,  true  to  his  ])romiso,  presented  himself 
at  the  carJiest  udmidsible  hour  next  day  with  all  the  aj)- 
paratus  of  his  art. 

So  early  was  it,  indeed,  that  Sybilla  was  just  pouring 
out  the  baronet's  first  cup  of  tea,  while  ho  leisurely  opened 
the  letters  the  moruiug  mail  had  brought. 

Lady  Kiugsland  complained  of  a  bad  headache,  her  hus- 
band said,  and  would  not  leave  her  room  until  dinner. 

Sir  Everai'd  made  this  announcement,  quietly  opening 
his  letters.  Sybilla  looked  at  him  with  furtive,  gleaming 
eyes.  The  tiaie  had  come  for  her  to  begin  to  lay  her 
train. 

My  lady  had  ascended  to  her  room  immediately  upon  the 
departure  of  the  American,  the  preceding  day,  and  had 
been  invisible  ever  since.  That  convenient  feminine  ex- 
ouse,  headache,  had  accounted  for  it;  but  Sybilla  Silver 
knew  better.  She  had  expected  her  to  breakfast  this 
morning,  and  she  began  to  think  Mr.  Parmalee's  little 
mystery  was  more  of  a  mystory  than  even  she  had 
dreamed.  The  announcement  of  the  man's  arrival  gave 
ker  her  cue. 

"  Our  American  friend  is  a  devotee  of  art,  it  seems," 
ahe  said,  with  a  light  laugh.  *'  He  lets  no  grass  grow  un- 
der his  feet.  1  had  no  easy  task  to  restrain  his  artistic 
ardor  within  due  limits  during  your  absence.  I  neyer 
knew  such  an  inquisitive  person,  either;  he  did  nothing 
but  ask  questions." 

"  A  national  trait,"  Sir  Everard  responded,  with  a 
shrug.  '*  Americans  are  all  inquisitive,  which  accounts 
for  their  go-aheadativeness,  1  dare  say. " 

'*  Mr.  Parmalee's  questions,  however,  took  a  very  nar- 
row range;  they  only  comprised  one  subject — you  aa4  my 
lady." 

The  young  baronet  looked  up  in  haughty  amaze. 

"  His  curiosity  on  this  subject  was  insatiable;  your  moat 
minute  biography  would  not  have  satisfied  him.  About 
Lady  Kingslaud  particularly— in  point  of  fact,  I  thought 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE, 


ISl 


ho  must  have  known  hor  in  New  York,  his  (juebtions  w»ce 
80  pointed,  und  I  asked  liiiii  so  directly." 

Tlie  stare  of  haughty  siirjiriso  gave  place  to  one  of  as- 
tonished anger,  a.s  tlie  baronet  bent  his  brows  and  looked 
sternly  across  the  table. 

"  And  what  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  ho  said  no,'*  replied  Sybilla,  lightly,  "but  in 
6uch  51.  manner  as  led  me  to  infer  yes.  However,  it  wm 
evident,  yesterday,  that  my  laily  had  never  set  eyes  on 
him  before;  but  I  did  I'ancy,  for  an  instant,  she  somehow 
recognized  that  picture." 

"  What  picture?"  asked  the  baronet,  sharply,  his  brows 
knit  in  an  angry  frown. 

"  '^J'hat  last  portrait  he  showed  her,"  Miss  Silver  au- 
Bwcred,  still  in  the  same  light  tone.  "  Yet  that  may  have 
be(5n  only  fancy,  too." 

The  angry  frown  deepened  and  darkened.  The  blue 
blood  of  the  Kingslands  was  prone  to  heat  easily. 

*'  Then,  Miss  Silver,  have  the  goodness  to  indulge 
in  no  more  such  fancies.  1  don't  care  to  hear  your  sus- 
picions and  surmises,  and  I  don't  choose  to  have  my  wife 
so  minutely  watched.  As  for  this  too  inquisitive  Yankee, 
he  had  better  cease  his  questions,  if  he  wishes  to  quit  Eng- 
land with  sound  bones!" 

Ho  arose  angrily  from  the  table,  swept  his  letters  to- 
gether, and  left  the  room.  But  his  face  wore  a  deep-red 
flush,  and  his  bent  brows  never  relaxed.  The  first  poison- 
ous suspicion  had  entered  his  mind,  and  the  calm  of  per- 
fect trust  would  never  reign  there  again. 

Sybilla  gazed  after  him  with  her  dark,  evil  smile. 

"  Caesar's  wife  must  be  above  reproach,  of  course. 
Fume  and  fret  as  you  please,  my  dear  Sir  Everard,  but 
this  is  only  sowing  the  first  seed.  I  shall  watch  your  wife, 
and  I  will  tell  you  my  suspicions  and  my  fancies,  and  you 
will  listen  in  spite  of  your  uplifted  sublimity  now.  Jeal- 
ousy is  ingrained  in  your  nature,  though  you  do  not  know 
it,  and  a  very  little  breath  will  fan  the  tiny  coal  into  iOL 
inextinguishable  flame. " 

She  arose,  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant  to  clear  the 
table,  shook  out  her  black  silk  robe,  and  went,  with  a 
smile  on  her  handsome  face,  to  do  the  fascinating  to  Mr, 
Parmalee. 

She  found  that  oaatious  gentleman,  busily  arranging  hie 


m 


n 


'!   , 


|i:' 


till  - 


"'9  ^ 

|H; 

i 

1 

132 


THE   lUHtNKi  s    I'.Kibr;. 


iniplomonts  in  tho  ])icture-jjfiill(jiy,  |»i'(.')»;iiii!<try  Id  liikinf; 
Huutlry  views  of  the  noblo  room.  IId  jioildt-il  {.'liively  to 
tho  youug  hilly,  and  went  steudlastly  on  wilh  Ih'h  work. 

*'  You  certainly  lose  no  time,  Mr.  J*armalee,"  MIhh  Sil- 
ver said.  "  1  was  remarking  to  Sir  Mverard  ut  breakfast 
that  you  wore  a  perfect  devotee  of  art." 

Mr.  Parnudeo  nodded  again,  in  acknowledgment  of  tho 
compliment. 

'•  How  dooa  tho  baronet  find  himself  this  morning?''  ho 
asked. 

"  As  usual — well." 

'*  And  lier  ladyship?"  very  carelessly. 

**  Her  ladyship  is  not  well.  I'm  afraid  your  pretty 
pictures  disagreed  with  her,  Mr.  I'arnnilee." 

"  Hey?"  said  tho  artist,  with  a  sharp,  suspicious  ataro. 

Miss  Silver  laughed. 

"  She  was  j)erfectly  well  until  you  showed  them  to  her. 
She  has  been  ill  over  since.  One  must  draw  one's  own 
iufereueo.'' 

Mr.  ]  ujmaloe  busied  himself  some  five  minutes  in  pro- 
found silence.     Then — 

*'  Whore  is  she  to-day?     Ain't  she  about?" 

**  No.  I  told  you  she  was  ill.  She  complained  of  head- 
ache after  you  left  yesterday,  and  went  u])  to  her  own 
room.     1  have  not  seen  her  since." 

Mr.  Parmalee  began  to  whistle  a  negro  melody,  and  still 
went  industriously  on  with  his  work. 

*'  I  don't  think  nothing  of  that,"  ho  remarked,  after  a 
prolonged  pause.  *'  Fine  ladies  all  have  headaches. 
Knowed  heaps  of  'em  to  home — all  had  it.  You  have 
yourself  sometimes,  I  guess." 

*'  No,"  said  Sybilla;  "  I'm  not  a  fine  lady.  I  have  no 
time  to  sham  headaches,  and  1  have  no  secrets  to  let 
loose.  I  am  only  a  fine  lady's  companion,  and  all  the 
world  is  free  to  know  my  history." 

And  then  Miss  Silver  looiced  at  Mr.  rarmalee,  and  Mr. 
Parmalee  looked  at  Miss  Silver,  with  the  air  of  two  ac- 
complished duelists  waiting  for  the  word. 

*'  He's  as  sharp  as  a  razor,"  thought  the  h'dy,  "  and  as 
shy  as  a  partridge.  Half  measures  won't  do  with  him.  1 
must  fight  him  on  his  own  ground." 

"  By  jingo!  she's  as  keen  as  a  catamount!"  thought 
the  gentleman,  in  a  burst  ol  admiration.     "  She'll  be  a 


i 


TFK     I!AI!0NI:T*R    IlRIDF. 


133 


vcly  U) 
)rlv. 

riHs  Sil- 
't'iikfuut 

oC  (ho 

i;'^"  he 


pretty 

I  staro. 

to  her. 
e's  own 

;  iu  pro- 
of head- 
ier own 

and  still 

,  after  a 
vlaohos. 
3U  have 

liave  no 

s  to  let 

all  the 

and  Mr. 
two  ac- 

'  and  as 
him.     1 

thought 
•'II  be  a 


I 


I 


credit  to  the  man  tliat  nijirric^  \un:  AVhat  a  pity  she 
don't  heloii*,'  down  to  ^fainu.  She's  a  wigliL  too  tiuto  for  u 
born  Uritisher.'* 

'riiero  was  a  louix  ]muse.  Mi.ss  Silver  and  IMr.  rannaleo 
looked  eaeh  oi,lu'r  I'liil  in  tlio  eye  without  winking.  All  at 
ouf'o  tin;  gentlcnmn  burst  out  laughing. 


(iet    out!"    said    Mr.     rarmalt'o. 


(!o    'lonj: — dol 


-you  are,  by  gosh !  Miss 
^'aukee,  Mr.  Parmaleo, 


You're  too  smart  for  tin's  world- 
Sybilla  Silver." 

"  Almost  smart  enough  for  a 
and  wonderfully  good  at  guessiii;;-. 

''  Yes!"'     And  what  have  you  guessed  this  time?" 

"  That  yon  have  Fiady  Kingsland's  secret;  that  that 
])ortrait — the  last  of  the  live — is  the  elew.  That  you  hold 
the  baronet's  briile  in  the  lioUow  of  your  hand!" 

She  8})oko  the  last  words  close  to  his  ear,  in  a  fierce, 
sibilant  whis])er.     The  Anuu'iiian  u'   ually  recoiled. 

"(«'()  'long!"  re})eated  j^fr.  J'arn'  lee.  "Don't  you  go 
whistling  in  a  fellow's  ear  like  tl  it.  Miss  S.;  it  tickles, 
(rot  ajiy  more  to  say?" 

"Only  this:  that  you  had  bettor  make  a  friend  of  me, 
Mr.  Parmaleo." 

There  was  a  glittering  menace  in  her  black  eyes — a 
hard,  threatening  under-tone  in  her  voice.  liut  the 
American  lost  not  an  atom  of  his  imperturbable  ficmg 
J'roid. 

"  And  if  I  don't,  Miss  S.?  If  I  prefer  to  do  as  wo  do 
in  euchre,  '  go  it  alone  ' — what  then?" 

"  Then!"  cried  Sybilla,  with  a  blaze  of  her  black  eyes, 
"  I'll  take  the  game  out  of  your  hands.  I'll  foil  you  with 
your  own  weapons.  I  never  failed  yet.  I'll  not  fail  now. 
I'm  a  match  for  a  dozen  such  as  you!" 

"  I  believe,  in  my  soul,  you  are!"  exclaimed  the  artist, 
in  a  burst  of  admiring  enthusiasm.  "  You're  the  real 
grit,  and  no  mistake.  I  do  admire  spunky  girls — I  do, 
by  jingo!  I  always  thought  if  I  married  and  fetched  a 
Mrs.  George  Washington  Parmalee  down  to  Maine,  she'd 
have  to  be  something  more  than  common.  And  you're 
not  common.  Miss  S. — not  by  a  long  chalk!  1  never  met 
your  match  in  my  life." 

"  iSlo?"  said  Sybilla,  smiling,  and  rather  surprised  by 
this  outburst;  "  not  even  '  down  to  Maine?'  " 

"  No,  by  George!  and  we  rai.se  the  smartest  kind  of  girls 


I 
\  III 
I 


i  0 


1:1 


1 

!  I 


134 


THE    baronet's    bride. 


■' 


'■    ! 


there.  Now,  Miss  Silver,  supposing,  we  go  partners  hi 
this  here  concern,  would  you  be  willing  to  go  partners 
with  a  fellow  for  life?  I  never  thought  to  marry  an  En- 
glish woman,  but  I'll  marry  you  to-morrow,  if  you'll  have 
mo.     What  d*ye  say?    Is  it  a  go?" 

It  was  rarely,  indeed.  Miss  Silver  lost  her  admirable 
presence  of  mind,  but  for  a  moment  she  lost  it  entirely 
now.  She  fairly  gasped  for  breath  in  he"  complete  amaze- 
ment. Only  for  a  moment,  though,  x'hen  as  the  utter  ] 
absurdity  of  the  affair  struck  her  she  went  off  into  an  in- 
extinguishable fit  of  laughter. 

"  You  don't  mean  it,  Mr.  Parmalee?"  as  soon  as  she 
oould  speak. 

"  I  do!"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  with  emphasis.  "  Laugh, 
if  you  like.  It's  kind  of  sudden,  I  supiDose,  but  I've  had 
a  hankering  after  you  this  some  time.  Your  a  right 
smart  kind  of  girl,  and  jest  my  style,  and  I  like  you  tip- 
top. The  way  you  c  a  roll  up  them  black  03^03  of  yours  at 
a  lellow  is  a  caution   0  rattlesnakes.     Say,  is  it  a  go?'* 

Sybilla  turned  a  'ay.  Her  dark  cheeks  reddened. 
There  was  a  momer  t's  hesitation,  then  she  turned  back 
and  extended  her  hand. 

"  You  are  not  very  romantic,  Mr.  Parmalee.  You  don't 
ask  me  for  my  love,  or  any  of  that  sentimental  nonsense," 
with  a  laugh.  "  And  you  really  mean  it — you  really  mean 
to  make  Lady  Kingsland's  poor  companion  your  wife?" 

"  Never  meant  anything  more  in  my  life.  It  is  a  go, 
then?" 

"  I  will  marry  you,  Mr.  Parmalee,  if  you  desire  it." 

"  And  you  won't  go  back  on  a  fellow?"  asked  Mr. 
Parmalee,  suspiciously.  "  You're  not  fooling  mo  just  to 
get  at  this  secret,  are  you?" 

Sybilla  drew  away  her  hand  with  an  offended  air, 

'*  Think  better  of  me,  Mr.  Parmalee!  I  may  be  shrewd 
enough  to  guess  at  your  secret  without  being  base  enough 
to  tell  i\  deliberate  lie  to  know  it.  I  could  find  it  oat  by 
easier  means." 

"  1  don't  know  pbout  that,"  said  the  artist,  cooiiy.  "It 
ain't  likely  Lady  Kingsland  would  tell  you,  and  you 
couldn't  get  it  out  of  me,  you  know,  if  you  wjis  twice  as 
clever,  unless  I  chose.  But  I  want  you  to  help  me.  A 
man  always  gets  along  better  in  these  little  underhand 
matters  when  he's  got  a  woman  going  partners  with  bun. 


THE    baronet's    BUIDE. 


13§ 


she 


I  want  to  see  my  lady.     I  want  to  send  her  a  note  all  un- 
beknown to  the  baronet." 

**  I'll  deliver  it,"  said  Sybilla,  promptly;  *'  and  if  sbe 
chooses  to  see  you,  I  will  raauag'^  that  8ir  Everard  will  not 
intrnde. " 

'•  JShe*Il  see  me  fast  enough.  I  thought  she'd  want  to 
see  me  herself  before  this,  but  it  appears  she's  inclined  to 
hold  out:  so  I'll  drop  her  a  hint  in  writing.  If  the 
mountain  won't  come  to  what's-his-name — you  know  what 
I  mean.  Miss  Silver.  I  suppose  I  may  call  you  Sybilla 
now.-' 

**  Oh,  undoubtedly,  Mr.  Parmalee!  But  for  the  pres- 
ent don't  you  think — just  to  keep  people's  tongues  quiet, 
you  know — had  we  not  better  keep  this  little  jirivato  com- 
pact to  ourselves?  I  don't  want  the  gossiping  servants  of 
the  house  to  gossip  in  the  kitchen  conclave  about  you  and 
me. 

Mr.  Parmalee  gave  one  of  his  sapient  nods. 

'*  Just  as  you  please.  I  don't  care  a  darn  for  their  gos- 
siping, though.  And  now  about  that  little  note.  I  want 
to  see  my  lady  before  I  explain  things  to  you,  you  know." 

'*  And  why}*  You  don't  intend  to  tell  her  I  am  to  be 
taken  into  your  confidence,  I  suppose?" 

"Not  much!"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  emphatically. 
**  Never  you  mind,  Sybilla.  Before  you  become  Mrs.  P., 
you'll  know  it  all  safe  enough.     I'll  write  it  at  once." 

He  took  a  Btum2)y  lead-pencil  from  his  pocket,  tore  a 
leaf  out  of  his  pocket-book,  and  wrote  these  words: 


l^'li 


>  ■ 


!  ■>»1 


m 


'* My  Lady,— You  knew  the  picture,  and  I  know  your 
secret,  Shoiilu  iiku  to  see  you,  if  convenient,  soon.  Tb»t 
person  is  in  London  waiting  to  hear  from  me. 

"  Your  most  obedient, 

"  G.  W.  Parmalee." 

The  photographer  handed  the  scrawl  to  Sybilla. 

"Read  it." 

**  Well?"  she  said,  taking  it  all  in  at  a  glance. 

"  Give  her  this.  She'll  see  me  before  1  leave  this  house, 
or  I'm  much  mistaken.  She's  a  very  handsome  and  a 
very  proud  lady,  this  baronet's  bride;  but  for  all  that 
she'll  obey  G.  W.  Parmalee's  orders,  or  he'll  know  the 
leaaoQ  why." 


136 


THE    JixVllOKET  3    BUIDE. 


P     '' 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MISS   SILVER   PLAYS   HER   FIRST  CARD. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Sir  Everard  Kinf^sland  to  rido 
his  high  horse  in  the  j^rcsence  of  Miss  Sybilla  Silver,  and 
superbly  rebuke  her  suspicions  of  his  wife,  but  her  words 
had  planted  their  sting,  nevertheless. 

He  was  one  of  those  unhappy  men  who  are  "  inclined  to 
be  jealous  " — men  in  whose  breast  suspicion,  once  planted, 
flourishes  forever.  His  face  was  very  dark  as  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  library,  revolving  over  and  over  the  few 
light  words  his  protegee  had  dropped. 

He  loved  his  beautiful,  imperious,  gray-eyed  wife  with  so 
absorbing  and  intense  a  love  that  the  faintest  doubt  of  her 
was  torture  inexpressible. 

*'  I  remember  it  all  now,''  he  said  to  himself,  setting  his 
teeth;  "  she  was  agitated  at  sight  of  that  picture.  She 
turned,  with  the  strangest  look  in  her  face  I  ever  saw 
there,  to  the  American,  and  rose  abruptly  from  the  table 
immediately  after.  She  hap  not  been  herself  since;  she 
has  not  once  left  her  room.  Is  she  afraid  of  meeting  that 
man?  Is  there  any  secret  in  her  life  that  he  shares? 
What  do  I  know  of  her  past  life,  save  that  she  has  been 
over  the  world  with  her  father?  Good  Heaven!  if  she  and 
this  strange  man  should  have  a  secret  between  them,  after 
all!" 

The  cold  drops  actually  stood  on  his  brow  at  the  thought. 
The  fie^-ia,  indomitable  pride  of  his  haughty  race  and  the 
man's  own  inward  jealousy  made  the  bare  susi)icion  agony. 
But  a  moment  after,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  gener- 
ous love,  he  recoiled  from  his  own  thoughts. 

"lam  a  wretch,"  ho  thought,  "a  traitor  to  the  best 
and  most  beautiful  of  brides,  to  harbor  such  an  unworthy 
idea!  What!  shall  I  doubt  my  darling  girl  becau:^e  Sybilla 
Silver  thinks  she  recognized  that  portrait,  or  beciiuse  an 
inquisitive  stranger  chooses  to  ask  questions?  No!  1  could 
stake  my  life  on  her  perfect  truth  and  purity — my  own 
dear  wife.'' 

Impulsively  I.t  turned  to  go;  at  onco  ho  must  seek  her, 
and  set  every  doubt  at  rest.  He  ascujulcd  rapidly  to  her 
room  and  softly  tapi)ed  at  the  door.     There  was  uo  an- 


il I  . 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


13/ 


Bwer.  Ho  knocked  again;  still  no  response.  He  turned 
the  handle  and  went  in. 

She  was  asleep.  Lying  on  a  sofa,  among  a  heap  of  pil- 
lows, arrayed  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  her  profuse  dark 
hair  all  lojse  and  disordered.  Lady  Kingsland  lay,  so  pro- 
foundly sleeping  that  her  husbaud's  knocking  had  not  dis- 
turbed he  I'.  Her  fac3  was  as  white  as  her  robe,  and  her 
eyelashes  were  wet,  as  though  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep 
like  a  child. 

8he  had  not  closed  an  eye  the  livelong  night  before,  and 
here,  in  the  quiet  of  the  early  morning,  she  had  dropped 
off  into  the  profound  slumber  that  no  trouble  can  long 
keep  from  the  young  and  the  healthy. 

The  handsome  face  of  Everard  Kingsland  softened  and 
grew  luminous  with  unutterable  love. 

'*  My  love!  my  darling!"  He  knelt  beside  her  and 
kissed  her  passionately.  '*  And  to  think  that  for  one  sec- 
ond I  was  base  enough  to  doubt  you!  My  beautiful,  inno- 
cent darling,  slumbering  here,  like  a  very  child!  No 
earthly  power  shall  ever  sunder  you  and  me!" 

A  pair  of  deriding  black  eyes  flashed  upon  him  through 
the  partly  open  door — a  pair  of  greedy  ears  drank  in  the 
softly  murmured  words.  Sybilla  Silver,  hastening  along 
with  the  artist's  little  note,  had  caught  sight  of  the  baronet 
entering  his  wife's  room.  She  tapped  discreetly  at  the 
door,  with  the  twisted  note  held  conspicuously  in  her  hand. 

Sir  Everard  arose  and  opened  it,  and  Miss  Silver's  sud- 
den recoil  was  the  perfection  of  confusion  and  surprise. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon.  Sir  Everaid.  My  lady  is — is  she 
not  here?" 

*'  Lady  Kingsland  is  asleep.  Do  you  wish  to  deliver 
that  note?" 

With  a  second  gesture  of  seeming  confusion,  Sybilla  hid 
the  hand  which  held  it  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"  Yes — no — it  doesn't  matter.  It  can  wait,  I  dare  say. 
He  didn't  mention  being  in  a  hurry." 

*'  He!    Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Sybilla?" 

*'  I — I  chanced  to  pass  through  tlio  picture-gallery  five 
minutes  ago.  Sir  Everard,  and  Mr.  Parmrlee  asked  me  to 
do  him  the  favor  of  handing  this  note  to  my  lady." 

Sir  Everard  Kingsland's  face  was  the  face  of  a  man  ut- 
terly confounded. 

'*  Mr.  Parmalee  asked  you  to  deliver  that  note  to  Lady 


^f 


J 


tj 


v 


f '.', 


136 


THE    BAROKET^S    BETDE. 


Kingsland?**  he  slowly  repoated.     '*  What  under  kfift?eft 
can  he  have  to  write  to  my  lady  about?" 

'*  1  really  don't  know.  Sir  Everard,'*  rejoined  Sybilla, 
her  characteristic  composure  seeming  all  at  ouce  to  return. 
•'  I  only  know  he  asked  me  to  deliver  it.  Ho  had  been 
looking  for  my  lady's  maid,  1  fancy,  in  vain.  It  is  prob- 
ably something  about  his  tiresome  pictures.  Will  you 
please  to  take  it.  Sir  Everard,  or  shall  I  wait  until  my  lady 
awakes?" 

"  You  may  leave  it." 

He  spoke  the  words  mechanically,  quite  stunned  by  the 
overwhelming  fact  that  this  audacious  photographic  })erson 
dared  to  write  to  his  wife.  Miss  Silver  passed  him,  placed 
the  twisted  paper  on  one  of  the  inlaid  tables,  and  left  the 
room  with  a  triumphant  light  in  her  deriding  black  eyes. 

"  I  have  trumped  my  hrst  trick,"  Sybilla  thought,  as 
she  walked  away,  *'  and  I  fancy  the  game  will  be  all  my 
own  hnortly.  Sir  Everard  will  open  and  read  Mr.  Parma- 
lee's  little  biUct'doux  the  instant  he  is  alone." 

But  just  here  Sybilla  was  mistaken.  Sir  Everard  did 
not  open  the  tempting  twisted  note.  He  glanced  at  it  once 
with  a  darkly  lowering  brow  as  it  lay  on  the  table.,  but  ho 
made  no  attempt  to  take  it. 

"  She  will  show  it  to  me  when  she  awakes,"  he  said, 
with  compressed  lips,  "  and  then  I  will  have  this  imperti- 
nent Yankee  kicked  from  the  house." 

He  sat  beside  her,  watching  hei'  while  she  slept,  witli  a 
face  quite  colorless  between  conflicting  love  and  torturing 
doubt.  His  wife  held  some  secret  with  this  strange  man. 
That  one  thought  in  itself  was  enough  to  drive  him  wild. 

Nearly  an  hour  passed  before  Harriet  awoke.  The  great 
dark  eyes  opened  in  wide  surprise  at  sight  of  that  pale,  in- 
tense face  bending  so  devotedly  over  her. 

"  You  here,  Everard?"  she  said,  sitting  up  and  pushing 
away  the  tangled  mass  of  waving  hair.  "  How  long  have 
I  been  asleep?    How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"  Over  an  hour,  Harrie. " 

"  So  long?  1  had  no  idea  of  going  asleep  when  1  lay 
diown;  but  my  head  ached  with  a  dull,  hopeless  pain,  and — 
What  is  that?" 

She  broke  off  in  wiiat  she  was  saying  to  ask  the  question 
abruptly.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  note  lying  on  the 
table, 


lll- 


/ 


THE   baronet's    bride. 


180 


Her  husbaml  fixed  his  eyes  keenly  on  her  face,  ami  an- 
swered, with  measured  slowness: 

"  You  will  scarcely  believe  it,  but  that  stranger — that 
American  artist — has  had  the  impertinence  to  adtlress  that 
note  to  you.  Sybilla  Silver  brought  it  here.  Shall  I  ring 
for  your  maid  and  send  it  back  unopened,  and  order  him 
out  of  the  house  for  his  pains?" 

*'  No!'*  said  Harriet,  impetuously.  "  I  must  read  it — 
1  must  see  what  he  says.*' 

She  snatched  it  up.  She  tore  it  open,  and,  walking  over 
to  the  window,  read  the  scrawl.  So  long  she  stood  there 
that  she  might  have  read  over  two  dozen  such. 

"  Harriet!'* 

She  turned  slowly  round  at  her  name  spoken  by  her  hus- 
band as  that  adoring  husband  had  never  spoken  it  before, 
and  faced  him,  white  to  the  very  lips. 

"  Give  me  that  note.'* 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  crushed  it  firmly  in  her  own, 
looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

*'  1  can  not.** 

"  You  can  not?'*  he  repeated,  slowly,  deathly  pale. 
"  Do  1  understand  you  aright,  Harriet?  Tiemember,  1  left 
that  note  untouched  while  you  slept,  waiting  for  you  to 
show  it  to  me.  No  man  has  a  right  a  address  a  note  to 
my  wife  that  I  may  not  see.  Show  me  that  papei  Har- 
riet." 

*'  It  is  nothing  *' — she  caught  her  breath  in  a  quick, 
gasping,  affrighted  way  as  she  said  it — "it  is  nothing, 
E ver ard !     Don 't  ask  me ! " 

"  If  it  is  nothing,  I  may  surely  see  it.  Harriet,  I  com- 
mand you!     Show  me  that  note!" 

The  eyes  of  Captain  Hunsden's  daughter  inflamed  up 
fierce  and  bright  at  sound  of  that  imperious  word  com- 
mand. She  drew  her  slender  figure  with  sudden,  imperial 
grace  to  its  fullest  height. 

*'  And  I  don't  choose  to  be  commanded — not  if  you  were 
my  king  as  well  as  my  husband.  You  shall  never  5?ee  it 
now!" 

There  was  a  wood-fire  leaping  up  on  the  marble  hearth. 
She  flung  the  note  impetuously  as  she  spoke  into  the  midst 
of  the  flames.     One  bright  jet  of  flame,  and  it  was  gone. 

Husband  and  wife  stood  facing  each  other,  }o  deathly 


1  i;i. 


^i! 


u 


m 


iU 


140 


THE    IIARONET'S    BRIDE. 


i 


! 


white,  she  flushed  and  defiant.  lie  was  the  first  to  speak 
— the  first  to  turn  away. 

"  And  this  is  tlie  woman  I  loved — the  wife  I  trusted — 
my  bride  of  one  shori  moulh. " 

He  had  turned  to  quit  the  room,  but  two  impetuous 
arms  were  around  his  neck,  two  impulsive  lips  covering 
his  face  with  penitent,  imploring  kisses. 

*' Forgive  rae — forgive  me!  Harriet  cried.  *' My 
dear,  my  true,  my  cherished  husband!  Oh,  what  a  wicked, 
ungrateful  creature  I  am!  What  a  wretch  you  must  think 
me!    And  1  can  not — I  can  not — I  can  not  tell  you." 

She  broke  out  suddenly  into  a  storm  of  hysterical  crying, 
clinging  to  his  neck. 

He  took  hor  in  his  arms,  '*  more  in  sorrow  than  in 
angor,"  sat  down  with  her  on  the  sofa,  and  let  her  sob 
herself  still.     His  face  was  stern  and  set  as  stone. 

"  And  now,  JIarriet,"  he  said,  when  the  hysterical  sobs 
were  hushed,  "  who  is  this  man,  and  what  is  he  to  you?" 

She  answered  him  at  once,  to  his  surprise,  passionately, 
almost  fiercely: 

"  He  is  nothing  to  wf — less  than  nothing!    I  hate  him!" 

*'  Where  did  you  know  him  before?" 

'*  Know  him  before?"  She  sat  up  and  looked  him  half 
angrily  in  the  face.  "  I  never  knew  him  before!  I  never 
set  eyes  on  him  until  I  saw  him  here. " 

Sir  Everard  drew  a  long  breath  of  intense  relief.  No 
one  could  doubt  her  perfect  truth,  and  his  worst  suspicion 
was  at  rest. 

*'  Then  what  is  this  secret  between  you  two?    For  there 
is  a  secret,  Harriet." 
*' There  is." 

He  drew  his  hands  away  from  her  with  a  sudden  motion. 
*'  What  is  it,  Harriet?" 
*'  I  can  not  tell  you." 
**  Harriet!" 

*'  I  can  not."  She  turned  deathly  white  as  she  said  it, 
but  her  eyes  met  his  unflinchingly.  "  Never,  Everard! 
There  is  a  secret,  but  a  secret  I  can  never  reveal,  even  to 
you.  ])on't  ask  mo — don't! 
and  trust  me  now!" 

There  was  a  blank  pausiB. 
he  held  her  sternly  olT. 


If  you  ever  loved  me,  try 
She  tried  to  clasp  him.  but 


THE    I!AKON£T*S    Rlill)i:. 


141 


lak 


mg 


*'Oiic  r| uestion  more:  You  knew  this  secret  before  you 
married  me?" 

"Idid." 

Her  head  drooped  for  the  first  time,  and  a  scarlet  suffu- 
sion dyed  face  and  neck. 

"  For  how  long?" 

"For  a  year." 

*'  And  that  picture  the  American  showed  you  is  a  pict« 
ure  you  know. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  a  wild  startled  light  in  her  great 
gray  eyes. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?" 

'*  I  am  answered,"  ho  said.  *'  1  see  1  am  right.  Onco 
more.  Lady  Kingsland,"  his  voice  cold  and  clear,  "you 
refuse  to  tell  mo?" 

"  I  must.  Oh,  Everard,  for  pity's  sake,  trust  me!  1 
can  not  tell  you — I  dare  not!" 

"  Enough,  madamo!     Your  accomplice  shall!" 

lie  turned  to  go.  She  made  a  step  between  him  and  the 
door. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?    Tell  me,  for  1  will  know!" 

"  1  am  going  to  the  man  who  shares  your  guilty  secret, 
madamo;  and,  by  the  Heaven  above  us,  I'll  have  the  truth 
out  of  him  if  I  have  to  tear  it  from  his  throat!  Out  of 
my  way,  before  I  forget  you  are  a  woman  and  strike  you 
down  at  my  feet!" 

She  staggered  back,  with  a  low  cry,  as  if  he  had  struck 
her  indeed.  He  strode  past,  his  step  ringing,  his  eyes 
Hashing,  his  face  livid  with  jealous  rage,  straight  to  tho 
picture-gallery. 

A  door  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  corridor  stood  ajar. 
Sybilhi  Silver's  listening  ears  heard  the  last  fierce  words, 
Sybilla  Silver's  glittering  black  eyes  saw  that  last  passion- 
ate gesture  of  repulsion.  She  saw  Harriet,  Lady  Kings- 
land — tho  bride  of  a  month — sink  down  on  the  oaken  floor, 
quivering  in  mortal  anguish  from  head  to  foot;  and  her 
tall  form  seemed  to  tower  and  dilate  with  diabolical  de- 
light. 

*'  Not  one  year,"  she  cried  to  her  exultant  heart—'*  not 
one  month  will  I  have  to  wait  for  my  revenge!  Lie  there, 
poor  fool!"  with  a  backward  glance  of  passionate  scorn  at 
the  prostrate  figure,  "  and  suffer  and  die,  for  what  1  care, 
while  I  go  and  prevent  your  madly  jcalouD  husband  from 


m 


142 


THE    UAIIONET  S    BRIDE. 


i 


If 


;  i ! 


ft  * 


J  s 


s; 


'    I 


,  1  i 


brjiiiiing  my  precious  liancu.  There  is  to  be  blood  on 
the  hands  and  the  brand  of  Cain  on  the  brow  of  the  last  ot 
the  Kingslands,  or  my  oath  will  not  be  kept;  but  it  must 
not  be  the  ignoble  blood  of  CJeorge  Washington  Parmalee!" 
She  glided  away  as  she  spoke,  with  the  swift,  serpentine 
grace  peculiar  to  her,  to  make  a  third  actor  in  u  stormy 
scene. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.    PARMALEE  SWEARS   VENGEANCE. 

Sir  Everari)  strode  straight  to  the  picture-gallery,  his 
face  pale,  his  eyes  Hashing,  his  hands  clinched. 

His  step  rang  like  steel  along  the  polished  oaken  floor, 
and  there  was  an  ominous  compression  of  his  thin  lips  that 
might  have  warned  Mr.  Parmalce  of  the  storm  to  come. 
But  Mr.  Parmalee  was  squinting  through  his  a2)])aratus  at 
a  grim,  old  warrior  on  the  wall,  and  only  just  glanced  up 
to  nod  recognition. 

"  Morning,  Sir  EverardI"  said  the  artist,  pursuing  his 
work.  "  Fine  day  for  our  business — uncommon  spring- 
like. You've  got  a  gay  old  lot  of  ancestors  here,  and  an- 
cestresses; and  stunningly  handsome  some  of  'em  is,  too, 
and  no  mistuke!" 

'*  Spare  your  compliments,  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  in 
tones  of  suppressed  rage,  "  and  spare  me  your  presence 
here  for  the  future  altogether!  The  sooner  you  pack  your 
traps  and  leave  this,  the  surer  you  will  be  of  finding  your- 
self with  a  sound  skin.*' 

*'  Hey?"  cried  Mr.  Parmalee,  astounded.  "  What  iu 
thunder  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  order  you  out  of  my  house  this  instant, 
and  that  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  villainous  carcass  if 
ever  I  catch  you  inside  my  gates  again!" 
'     The  artist  dropped  his  tools  and  stood  blankly  staring. 

*'  13y  ginger!  Why,  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  I  don'l;  un- 
derstand this  here!  You  told  me  yourself  I  might  come 
here  and  take  the  pictures.  1  call  this  dooscd  unhand- 
some treatment — I  do,  by  Ceorgu!  going  back  on  a  feller 
like  this!" 

"  You  audacious  scoundrel!"  roared  the  enraged  young 
lord  of  Kingsland,  *'  how  dare  you  presume  to  answer  me? 
How  dare  you  stand  there  rnd  look  me  in  the  face?    If 


THE    rAiJONET's    BRIDE. 


143 


i  called  my  servants  and  made  thorn  lash  you  outside  the 
gates,  I  would  only  serve  you  right!  You  low-bred,  im- 
pertinent ruffian,  how  dare  you  write  to  my  wife?" 

It  all  burst  upon  Mr.  Parmalee  like  a  thunder-clap— 
the  baronet  had  seen  his  note. 

"Whew!"  he  whistled,  long  and  shrill,  "that's  it,  is 
it?  The  cat's  out  of  the  bug;  the  fat's  in  the  fire,  and  all 
»-8izzin* !  Look  here.  Sir  Everard,  don't  you  get  so  tearin* 
mad  all  for  notliing.  I  'lidn't  write  no  disrespect  to  her 
ladyship — I  didn't,  by  Jupiter!  Miss  Silver  can  tell  you 
so,  if  you've  a  mind  to  ask  her,  or  my  lady  herself,  for  that 
matter.  I  jest  had  a  little  request  to  make,  and  if  I  could 
have  seen  her  ladyship  I  wouldn't  have  writ  at  all,  but  she 
kept  out  of  my  way,  and  —  " 

"  You  scoundrel!"  cried  the  i>assionate  young  baronet, 
wWte  with  fury,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  my  wife  kept  out  of 
your  way — was  afraid  of  you?" 

"Exactly  so,  squire,"  replied  the  imperturbable  for- 
eigner. '•  She  must  'a'  known  I  had  something  to  say  to 
her  yesterday  when  1 —  Well,  she  knowed  it,  and  she 
kept  out  of  my  way — 1  say  it  again." 

The  baronet's  face  was  perfectly  livid  with  suppressed 
rage. 

"  And  you  dare  tell  me  there  is  a  secret  between  my 
wife  and  you?  Are  you  not  afraid  1  will  throw  you  out  of 
yonder  window?" 

Mr.  Parmalee  drew  himself  stiffly  up. 

'  Not  if  I  know  myself!  That  is  a  game  two  can  play 
at.  As  for  the  secret,"  with  a  sudden  sneer,  "  I  ain*t  no 
desire  to  keep  it  a  secret  if  your  wife  ain't.  Ask  her.  Sir 
Everard,  and  if  she's  willing  to  tell  you,  I'm  sartin  I  am. 
But  1  don't  think  she  will,  by  gosh!" 

The  sneering  mockery  of  the  last  taunt  was  too  much 
for  the  fier}'  young  prince  of  Kingsland.  With  the  yell  of 
an  enraged  tiger  he  sprung  upon  Mr.  Parmalee,  hurled 
him  to  the  ground  in  a  twinkling,  and  twisted  his  left 
hand  into  Mr.  Parmalee 's  blue  cotton  neckerchief,  show- 
ering blows  with  his  right  fast  and  furious. 

The  attack  was  so  swift  and  savage  that  Mr.  Parmalee 
lay  perfectly  stunned  and  helpless,  turning  unpleaiantly 
black  in  the  face,  his  eyes  staring,  the  blood  gushing. 

Kneeling  on  his  fallen  foe,  with  fiery  face  and  distended 
eyes,  Sir  Everard  looked  for  the  moment   an   incarnate 


4 


Hi 


I;- 


'  *  i 


144 


TTTE    TAHONRT  S    r.UIDR. 


yoiiug  demon.  It  flashed  upon  liim,  swift  as  lightning,  in 
iii.^  sudden  madness,  \vhat  he  was  about. 

"Til  murder  him  if  1  slay  here,"  lie  thought;  and  as 
the  thought  crossed  his  mind,  with  a  shriek  and  a  swish  of 
ailk,  in  rushed  Miss  Silver  and  ihmg  herself  between  them. 

"  Good  Heaven!  Sir  Everard,  have  you  gone  mad?  lu 
mercy's  name,  stop  before  you  have  (pjite  murdered  him!" 

Sir  Kverard  sprung  to  his  feet,  ghastly  still,  wiLli  furious, 
llaming  eyes  and  ijiood-bes])uttered  face. 

"  Dog — cur!"  he  cried,  spurning  the  sprawling  artist 
with  his  boot.  ""  Get  n\)  and  ([uit  my  ho".:>o,  or,  by  the 
living  light  above  us,  I'll  blow  your  bra'ds  out  as  I  would 
a  mad  hound's!" 

He  swung  round  and  strode  out  of  the  i)ic.ture-gallery, 
and  slowly,  slowly  aro^o  the  ]>r()stnite  her(»,  with  bloody 
face  and  blacskened  eyes.  With  an  utterly  bhink  and  j)ite- 
ous  expression  of  face,  Mr.  I'armahiesat  ajid  gazed  around, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  tragic  nature  of  the  occurrence,  it  was 
all  Sybilla  could  do  to  keep  from  laughing. 

"  Get  lip,  Mr.  Parmalee,"  she  said,  "  and  go  away  at 
once.  The  woman  at  the  lodge  will  give  you  soap  and 
water  and  a  towel,  and  you  can  make  yourself  decent  be- 
fore entering  th«  village.  If  you  don't  hurry  you'll  need 
a  guide.  Your  eyes  are  as  large  as  bishop  pii)pins,  and 
closing  fast  now." 

She  nearly  laughed  again,  this  tender  fianct'e,  as  she  as- 
sisted her  slaughtered  betrothed  to  his  feet.  Mr.  Parmalee 
wiped  the  blood  out  of  his  eyes  and  looked  dizzily  about 
him. 

"  Where  is  he?"  he  gasped. 

"Sir  Everard?  He  has  gone,  after  belaboring  you 
soundly.  I  believe  he  would  have  killed  you  outright  oidy 
1  came  in  and  tore  him  off.  What  on  earth  did  you  say 
to  infuriate  him  so?" 

"  1  say?"  exclaimed  the  artist,  fiercely.  "  I  said  noth- 
ing, and  you  know  it.  It  was  you,  you  confounded  De- 
lilah, you  mischief-making  deceiver,  who  showed  hiui  that 
air  note!" 

"  I  protest  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort!"  cried  Sybilla,  in- 
dignantly. "  He  was  in  my  lady's  room  when  1  entered, 
and  he  saw  the  note  in  my  hand.  She  was  asleep,  and  I 
tried  to  escape  and  take  the  note  with  nie,  but  he  ordered 
me  to  leave  it  and   go.     Of  course  !   h-ul  to  obey,     if  he 


THE    I'.AKONKT's    IWIIDE. 


145 


in 


road  it,  it  was  no  fault  of  mine;  but  I  don't  buliovo  ho  did. 
You  have  no  right  to  blauiu  mo,  JVIr.  I'anuaioo.'' 

Mr.  Parmaloo  ground  out  u  buvjigo  oiitli  botwoon  his 
clinchod  tooth. 

"  ril  bo  even  with  him  for  tliiw,  tlin  insulting  young 
aristocrat!  I'll  not  spuro  him  nowl  J '11  sprcud  llu;  nows 
far  and  wido;  the  very  birds  in  the  troos  shiill  sing  it,  tho 
story  of  his  wifo's  shame!  I'll  lower  that  cunscil  jwide  of 
his  boforo  another  month  is  over  his  head,  and  I'll  ha\o 
his  handsome  wife  on  her  knees  to  me,  as  stu'o  as  my  names 
I'armaleo!  llo  knocked  mo  down,  and  ho  beat  me  to  a 
jolly,  did  he?  and  ho  ordered  mo  out  of  Jiis  houae;  and 
he'll  shoot  mo  like  a  mail  dog,  will  he?  Hut  I'll  be  even 
with  him;  I'll  tlx  him  oil'!  I'll  make  him  repent  tho  day 
ho  over  lifted  his  hand  to  (■.  W.  Parmalee!" 

Miss  Silver  listened  to  his  eloquent  outburst  of  fooling 
with  greedy,  glistening  blauk  eyes,  and  patted  her  lover 
soothingly  on  tho  shoulder. 

"So  you  shall.  I  like  to  hear  you  tiilk  like  that. 
You're  a  glorious  follow,  (Jeorge,  and  Sybilla  will  help 
you;  for,  listen  " — she  came  close  and  hissed  the  words  in 
a  venomous  whisper—"  I  hate  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  and 
ull  his  race,  and  I  hate  his  upstart  wife,  with  her  high 
and  mighty  airs,  and  I  would  see  them  both  deail  at  my 
feet  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life!" 

"  You  got  out!"  rejoined  Mr.  Parmalee,  recoiling  and 
c'iippiug  his  hand  to  his  oar.  "  I  told  you  before,  Sybilla, 
not  to  whist/ 3  in  a  fellow's  car  like  that.  It  goes  through 
a  chap  like  cold  stool.  As  to  your  hating  them,  1  believe 
in  my  soul  you  hate  most  people;  and  women  like  you, 
with  big,  flashing  black  eyes,  are  apt  to  be  uticommon  good 
haters,  too.  But  what  have  they  done  to  you?  1  always 
took  'em  to  be  good  friends  to  you,  my  girl.  " 

Sybilla  Silver  laughed — a  hard  laugh  and  mirthless,  and 
most  unpleasant  to  hear. 

"  You  have  read  the  fable,  Mr.  Parmalee,  of  the  man 
who  found  the  frozen  adder,  and  who  warmed  and  cher- 
ished it  in  his  bosom,  until  ho  restored  it  to  life?  Well, 
Sir  Everard  found  me,  homeless,  friendless,  penniless,  and 
he  took  me  with  him,  and  fed  me,  clothed  me,  protected 
me,  and  treated  me  like  a  sister.  Tho  adder  in  the  fablo 
stung  its  preserver  to  death,     1,  Mr.  I'armalee,  if  you  over 


■i 


116 


THE    BAllONKTH    niirPF. 


At'l  iiiclijied  to  poison  Sir  Evortird,  will  mix  tho  pofciou  and 
lioM  til')  bowl,  and  watoli  his  doiilli-tliroos!'^ 

Mr.  Pariujiloe  looked  ;it  tho  bonnlifiil  KiKnikor  in  iwton- 
iHlimunt  not  unmixod  with  dis^'ust.  IFfr  eyos  whono  liko 
midiii<^diL  dturs,  und  a  li^dit  such  uh  nii;j:lit  fitly  illuminatu 
King  Liirifor's  irrndiiited  her  dusky  lu-iuity. 

"  (fO  along  with  yon!"  «;ud  tho  Anierican,  bogirniing  to 
foUuot  his  traps.  "  Yon'ro  a  bad  one,  you  are,  if  ever 
there  was  a  bail  one  yet!  I  don't  like  su(ih  lingo — I  don't, 
by  (jeorgel  1  never  took  yon  for  an  angel,  but  J  vow  I 
didn't  think  you  were  the  cantaidvorous  little  toad  you  are! 
J  don't  .set  u[)  to  be  a  saitit  myself,  and  if  a  nnin  knoeks  mo 
down  and  pummels  my  innards  out  for  nothin',  I  caleulato 
to  lix  liis  ilint,  if  J  ean;  but  you— shool  you're  a  little  devil 
on  airth,  and  that's  my  opinion  of  you." 

Sybilla's  eyes  Hashed,  lialf  in  amusement,  half  in  anger. 

"  With  such  a  complimentary  opinion  of  me,  then,  Mr. 
Parmalee,  I  preaumo  oiu'  late  [lat  tnership  is  dissolved?" 

'*  Nothing  of  the  sort!  I  like  grit,  and  if  you've  got 
rayther  more  than  your  share,  why,  when  you're  Mrs. 
Parmalee  it  will  be  amusing  to  take  it  out  of  you.  And 
now  I'm  olf,  and  by  all  that's  great  and  glorious,  there'll 
bo  howling  and  gnashing  of  teeth  in  this  hero  old  shop 
before  I  return." 

"  You  go  without  seeing  my  laily,  then?"  said  Sybilla. 

"  My  lady's  got  to  come  to  mo!"  retorted  tlie  artist, 
sullenly.  "  Jt's  her  turn  to  eat  hmnblo  pie  now,  and 
she'll  finish  tho  dish,  by  George,  before  I've  done  with  hor! 
I'm  going  back  to  the  tavern,  down  the  village,  and  so  you 
can  toll  her;  and  if  she  wants  me,  she  can  i>ut  her  pride 
in  her  pocket  and  come  there  and  find  me." 

'*  And  1,  too?"  said  Sybilla,  anxiously,  keeping  by  his 
side  as  Mr.  Parmalee  stalked  in  sulky  displeasure  along. 
"  Kemomeber  your  promise  to  reveal  all  to  me,  George. 
Am  1  to  seek  yon  out  at  tho  inn,  too,  and  await  your  sov- 
ereign pleasure?" 

Sho  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looked  up  in  his 
face  with  eyes  few  men  could  resist.  They  were  quite 
alone  in  the  vast  hall — no  prying  eyes  to  see  that  tender 
caress.  Mr. .  Parmalee  was  a  good  deal  of  a  stoic  and  a 
little  of  a  cynic;  but  he  was  llesh  and  blood,  as  even  stoics 
'-nd  cynics  are  when  you  come  down  to  tbe.  fime  thiitg,  luoid 


«..    i    WJ'i 


Tlii;    liAUONKT  tJ    l;ini)E. 


147 


in  his 

quite 

tender 

1  and  a 

1  stoics 

.  aod 


thu  iriuii  iiiulur  bixty  wuh  not.  born  who  roiihi  have  rutiidted 
tliat  dark,  bcnviUihin^s  \vhi!udling,  hcauLii'nl  face. 

Tho  Anirrican  arU.st  took  \un'  in  his  h>ng  aiinti  with  a 
vigorous  huj^,  and  favorud  Irt  with  a  sounding'  kint). 

'*  I'll  tt'll  you,  Sybilla.  Ifangnd  if  J  don't  biiliove  you 
oaii  twiiit  nil!  round  your  little  lin^^u-  if  you  oiiooso!  You're 
a^  j)ri'tty  aa  a  j)iiJturo — you  an;,  I  Kwoar,  and  I  lovo  you 
liku  all  (MTation;  and  1'!!  niarrv  you  jusjt  as  soon  an  this 
littlo  businr^s  is  t^rLllcd,  and  I'il  tako  you  to  Maino,  and 
kuoj)  you  in  Lho  tallest  soiL  of  olovor.  1  ncvor  calk'lati'il  on 
liavin^f  a  Uriiish  <r  il  for  a  wife;  but  you're  handdonio  enough 
and  sptniky  enou.:;h  for  a  ])residc'nt  s  laily,  and  I  don't  earo 
a  tlarn  what  tlu)  folks  roinid  our  section  way  about  it.  I'll 
tell  you,  Sybilla;  but  you  mustn't  s})lit  to  a  livinj^  uoul,  or 
my  caku*«  dtiugli.  'L'hey  say  a  woman  can't  keep  a  secret; 
but  you  must  try,  if  you  should  burst  for  it.  1  reckon  my 
laily  will  (!ome  down  lianilsomely  before  I've  done  with 
her,  anil  you  and  me,  Sybilla,  can  go  to  housekoe])ing 
across  the  three  thousand  miles  of  everlasting  wet  in  tip- 
top style.  Come  to-night;  you've  got  to  come  to  me  now. 
Jt  s  as  much  nc  a  fellow's  life  is  worth  to  set  foot  here  any 
more;  and,  by  gracious!  I  ain't  going  to  get  thrashed  by 
the  llunkies  for  all  the  baronets  and  their  brides  this  side 
of  kingdom  come!" 

"  No,"  Sybilla  said,  thoughtfully;  "  of  course  not.  Ant 
1  must  go  with  you  no  fia-thor,  lest  we  should  be  seen  to- 
gether and  our  intimacy  suspected.  I  sup])08e  1  will  liud 
you  at  the  inn?" 

"  I  sui)poseso.  'Tain't  likely,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  with 
a  sulky  sense  of  injury,  "  you'll  lind  mo  prancing  up  'ind 
down  the  vilhige  with  Lhis  here  face.  I'll  get  the  old  woman 
to  do  it  up  in  brown  paper  and  vinegar  when  I  go  home, 
and  I'll  stay  abed  and  smoke  until  dark.  You  won't  come 
afore  dark,  will  you?" 

"  No;  1  don't  want  to  be  recognized;  and  you  must  be 
jirepared  to  come  out  with  me  when  1  do.  I'll  disguise 
myself.  Ah!  suppose  I  disguise  myself  in  men's  clothes? 
You  won't  mind,  will  you?" 

"]>ygosli!  no,  if  you  don't.  Men's  clothes!  What  a 
rum  one  you  are.  Miss  Silvei-?  Dooseil  good-looking  little 
feller  you'll  niak«.     But  why  are  you  so  skeery  about  it?" 

"  Why?  Need  you  ask?  Would  Sir  Everard  permit  me 
to  remain  in  his  house  one  hour  if  he  suspected  I  was  his 


I        n 


!  Ill 


j;ti 


f  ■ 

■J  ■ 

|: 

if 

m 

'  1 

Ih 

i 

W'' 

,  1       ! 

II  : 


^1 


148 


THE    BARONET 'y    JJKIDE. 


tmemy's  friend?  Have  you  any  message  to  deliver  to  my 
lady  before  we  part?" 

"  No.  She'll  send  a  me«sage  to  me  during  the  day,  or 
I'm  mistaken.  If  she  don't,  why,  1*11  send  one  back  witli 
you  to-night.  By-bye,  Mrs.  Parmalce  that  is  to  bo.  Take 
'jare  of  yourself  until  to-night." 

The  gentleman  walked  down  the  stair- way  alone  toward 
a  side  entrance.  The  lady  stood  on  the  landing  above, 
looking  after  him  with  a  bitter,  sneeri  ^  smile. 

'•Mrs.  Parma'ee,  indeed!  You  besotted  idiot — you 
blind,  conceited  lool!  Twist  you  round  my  little  finger, 
can  I?  Yes,  you  great,  hulking  simpleton,  and  ten  times 
better  men!  Let  me  worm  your  secret  out  of  you — let  mo 
squeeze  my  sponge  dry,  and  then  see  how  1*11  flirg  you  into 
your  native  gutter!'* 

Mr.  Parmalee,  on  his  way  out,  stopped  at  the  pretty 
rustic  lodge  and  bathed  his  swollen  and  discolored  visage. 
The  lodge-keeper's  wife  was  all  sympathy  and  questions. 
How  on  earth  did  it  happen? 

"  Run  up  against  the  'Icctric  telegraph,  ma'am,**  re- 
plied Mr.  Parmalee,  sulkily;  "and  there  was  a  message 
coming  full  speed,  and  it  knocked  me  over.  Morning. 
Much  obliged.*' 

He  walked  away.  Outside  the  gates  he  paused  and 
shook  his  clinched  fist  menacingly  at  the  noble  old  house. 

"  I'll  pay  you  out,  my  fine  feller,  if  ever  I  get  a  chance! 
You're  a  very  great  man,  and  a  very  proud  man.  Sir  Ever- 
ard  Kingsland,  and  you  own  a  fine  fortune  and  a  haughty, 
handsome  wife,  and  G.  W.  Parmalee's  no  more  than  the 
mud  under  your  feet.  Very  well — we'll  see!  '  Every  dog 
has  bis  day,'  and  '  the  longest  lane  has  its  turning,'  and 
you're  near  about  the  end  of  your  tether,  and  George 
Parmalee  has  you  and  your  fine  lady  under  his  thumb — 
under  his  thumb — and  he'll  crush  you,  sir — yes,  by  Heaven, 
he'il  crush  you,  and  strike  you  back  blow  for  blow!" 

Shaking  the  dust  of  Kingsland  off  his  feet,  Mr.  Par- 
malee stalked  like  a  sulky  lion  back  to  the  Blue  Bell  Inn, 
and  electrified  everybody  there  by  the  transformation  he 
had  so  suddenly  undergone. 

True  to  his  word,  he  ordered  unlimited  supplies  of  brown 
paper  and  vinegar,  rum  and  water,  pipes  and  tobacco, 
swore  at  his  questioners,  and  adjourned  to  his  bedroom  la 
await  the  coming  of  nightfall  and  Sybilla  Silver. 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


14ft 


my 


or 


re- 


Vhe  short  winter  ilay  wore  on.  A  good  conscience,  a 
sound  digestion,  rum  and  smoke  ad  libitum,  enabled  our 
wounded  artist  to  sleep  comfortably  through  it,  and  he  was 
still  snoring  vociferously  when  Mrs.  Wedge,  the  landlady, 
cjime  to  his  bedside  with  a  llaring  tallov\r  candle,  and  woke 
luni  up. 

"  Which  I've  been  a-knockin'  and  a-knockin',"  Mrs. 
Wedge  crietl,  slirilly,  *'  fit  to  knock  the  skin  off  my  blessed 
knuckles,  Mr.  Parmalee,  and  couldn't  wake  you  no 
more'n  the  dead.  And  he's  a-waitin'  down-stairs,  which 
he  won't  come  up,  but  says  it's  most  particular,  and  must 
see  you  at  once." 

'*  Hold  your  noisel"  growled  the  artist,  tumbling  out  of 
bed.  *' What's  o'clock?  Leave  th:it  candle  and  clear  out, 
and  tell  the  young  feller  I'll  be  down  in  a  brace  of  shakes. 
It  is  a  young  fellow,  isn't  it?" 

'*  I  couldn't  see  him,"  replied  Mrs.  Wedge,  "  which  he's 
that  muffled  up  in  a  long  cloak  and  a  cap  drawed  down 
that  his  own  mother  herself  couldn't  tell  him  hout  there 
in  the  dark.     Was  you  a-expectin'  of  him,  sir?" 

**  That's  no  business  of  yours,  Mrs.  Wedge,"  the  Amer- 
ican answered,  grimly.     "You  can  go." 

Mrs.  Wedg3  departed  in  displeasure,  and  tried  again  to 
see  the  muffled  stranger.  But  h'j  was  looking  out  into  the 
starlit  darkness,  and  the  good  landlady  vas  completely 
baffled. 

She  saw  her  lodger  join  him;  she  saw  the  hero  of  the 
cloak  take  his  arm,  and  both  walk  briskly  away. 

"  By  George!  this  is  a  disguise!"  exolaimed  Mr.  Parma- 
lee.  "'  1  wouldn't  recognize  you  at  noonday,  Sybilla,  in 
this  trim.  Do  you  know  who  1  took  you  for  until  you 
spoke?" 

"  Whom?" 

**  Sir  Everard  himself.  You're  as  like  him  as  two  peas 
in  that  rig,  only  not  so  tall." 

*'  The  cloak  and  cap  are  his,"  Miss  Silver  c^nswered, 
"  which  perhaps  accounts — " 

But  Mr.  Parmalee,  watching  her  curiously,  shook  his 
head. 

**  No,"  be  said,  **  there's  more  than  that,  i  might  put 
on  that  cap  and  cloak,  but  I  wouldn't  look  like  the  bar- 
onet.    Your  Toioes  sound  alike,  and  there's  a  general  air 


!L 


!■ 


I' 


150 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


i  I 


— 1  can't  describe  it,  but  you  kuow  what  I  mean.  You're 
no  relation  of  his,  are  you,  Sybilla?" 

gybilla  laughed — the  strangest  laugh. 

"  A  relation  of  the  Prince  of  Kiugsland — poor  little 
Sybilla  Silver!  My  good  Mr.  Parmalee,  what  an  absurd 
idea!  You  do  me  proud  even  to  hint  that  the  blue  blood 
of  all  the  Kingslands  could  by  any  chance  flow  in  these 
plebeian  veins!  Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  am  only  an  upper  serv- 
ant in  that  great  house,  and  '.vould  lose  my  place  within 
the  hour  if  its  lordly  master  dreamed  1  was  here  talking  to 
the  man  he  hates.     How  is  your  poor  face,  Mr.  Parmalee?" 

Miss  Silver's  voice  faltered  a  little  as  she  put  the  ques- 
tion, perhaps  with  inward  puin,  perhaps  with  inward 
laughter — her  companion  couldn't  tell,  in  that  dim  star- 
light. They  had  left  the  village  behind  them,  and  were 
out  on  the  breezy  common. 

'*  And  my  lady,"  the  arti«t  asked — "  any  news  from 
ker?" 

,*'  Not  a  word.  She  came  down  to  dinner  beautifully 
dressed,  but  white  as  the  snow  lying  yonder.  She  and  Sir 
Bverard  dined  Ute-a-tHe.  I  take  my  meals  with  the 
housekeeper,  now,"  smiling  bitterly.  "  My  Lady  Harriet 
doesn't  like  me.  The  butler  told  me  they  did  not  speak 
six  words  during  the  whole  time  of  dinner." 

"  Both  in  the  sulks,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee.  '*  Well,  it's 
natural.  He's  dying  to  know,  and  she'll  be  torn  to  pieces 
afore  she  breathes  a  word.  She's  that  sort.  But  this 
shyin'  and  holding  off  won't  do  with  mo.  I'm  getting  tired 
of  waiting,  and — and  so's  another  party  up  to  London. 
Tell  her  so,  Sybilla,  with  G.  W.  P.'s  compliments,  and 
aay  that  I  give  her  just  two  more  days,  and  if  she  doesn't 
come  to  book  before  the  e.  d  of  that  time,  I'll  sell  her 
secret  to  the  highest  bidder." 

'*Ye8!"  Sybilla  said,  breathlessly;  "and  now  for  that 
secret,  George!" 

"  You  won't  tell?"  cried  Mr.  Parmalee,  a  little  alarmed 
at  this  precipitation.     "  Say  you  won't — never — so  help 

Now  go  on!" 


you! 

"  Never — I  swear  it. 


An  hour  later,  Sybilla  Silver,  in  her  impenetrable  dia- 
guiso,  re-entered  Kiugsland  Court,     No  one  had  seen  her 


THE    BAIIOJSET'S    BlilDE. 


151 


go — no  one  saw  her  return.     She  gained  her  own  room 
and  took  oft  her  disguise  unobserved. 

Once  only  on  her  way  to  it  she  had  paused — before  my 
Jady's  door— and  the  dark,  beautiful  face,  wreathed  with 
a  deadly  smile  of  hate  and  exultation,  was  horribly  trans- 
formed  to  the  face  of  a  malignant,  merciless,  all-powerf ui 
demon. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A     STORM     BREWING. 

The  fever  of  love,  the  fever  of  jealousy,  like  other  chills 
and  fevers,  have  their  hot  spells  and  their  cold  ones. 

Sir  Everard  Kingslaud  was  blazing  in  the  very  hottest 
of  the  flame  when  he  tore  himself  forcibly  away  from  the 
artist  and  buried  himself  in  his  study.  The  unutterablo 
degradation  of  it  all,  the  horrible  humiliation  that  this 
man  and  his  wife — his — were  bound  together  bv  some 
mysterious  secret,  nearly  drove  him  mad. 

"  Where  there  is  mystery  there  must  be  guilt!"  he 
fiercely  thought.  "  Nothing  under  heaven  can  make  it 
right  for  a  wife  to  have  a  secret  from  her  husband.  And 
she  knew  it,  and  concealed  it  before  she  married  me,  and 
means  to  deceive  me  until  the  end.  In  a  week  her  name 
and  that  of  this  low-bred  ruffian  will  be  bandied  together 
throughout  the  country.  Good  heavens,  the  thought  is 
enough  to  drive  me  mad!" 

And  then,  like  a  man  mad  indeed,  he  tore  up  and  down 
the  apartment,  his  hands  clinched,  his  face  ghastly,  his 
eyes  bloodshot.  And  then — oh,  strange  and  incompre- 
hensible insanity  of  passion ! — all  doubts  and  fears  were 
swept  away,  and  love  rushed  back  in  an  impetuous  torrent, 
and  he  knew  that  to  lose  her  were  ten  thousand  times 
worse  than  death. 

"  My  beautiful!  my  own!  my  darling!  May  Heaven  pity 
us  both!  for  be  your  secret  what  it  may,  I  can  not  lose  you 
— I  can  not!  Life  without  you  were  tenfold  worse  than  the 
bitterest  death!  My  own  poor  girl!  1  know  she  suffers, 
too,  for  this  miserable  secret,  this  sin  of  others — for  such 
it  must  be.  She  looked  up  in  my  face  with  truthful,  inno- 
cent eyes,  and  told  nie  .she  never  saw  this  man  until  she 
met  him  that  day  in  the  library,  and  I  know  she  spoke  the 
truth  I    My  love,  my  wife!    You  asked  me  to  trust  you. 


I  ; 


n 


)  ;'i 


W'l 


W 


i- 


\ 


ld2 


THE    BAKONFr  S    BIllDE. 


!; 


IfiH 


nN 


and  I  thrust  you  aside!  I  spoke  and  acted  like  a  bruto!  L 
will  trust  you!  1  will  wait!  1  will  never  doubt  you  again, 
my  own  beloved  bride!" 

And  then,  in  a  paroxysm  of  love  and  remorse,  the  young 
husband  strode  out  of  the  library  and  upstairs  to  his  wife's 
room.  Uo  found  her  alone,  sitting  by  the  window,  in  her 
loose  white  morning-robe,  a  book  lying  idly  on  her  knee, 
herself  whiter  than  the  dress  she  wore.  She  was  not  read- 
ing— the  book  lay  listless,  the  dark  eyes  looked  straight  be- 
fore them  with  an  unutterable  pathos  that  it  wrung  his 
heart  to  see. 

"  My  love!  my  life!"  He  had  her  in  his  strong  arms, 
strainoil  to  his  breast  as  if  he  never  meant  to  let  her  go. 
"  My  own  dear  Harrie!  Can  you  ever  forgive  me  for  the 
brutal  words  I  used — for  the  brutal  way  1  acted?" 

She  gave  a  low  cry  of  joy,  and  sunk  down  on  his  breast 
with  a  look  of  such  infinite  love  and  thankfulness  that  it 
haunted  liim  to  his  dying  day. 

"My  Everard!  my  beloved  husband!  My  darling!  my 
darling!  You  are  not — you  will  not  be  angry  with  your 
poor  little  Harrie?" 

"  I  could  not,  my  life!  What  is  the  world  worth  to  us 
if  wo  can  not  love  and  trust?  I  do  love  you,  God  alone 
knows  how  well!  I  will  trust  you,  though  all  the  world 
should  rise  up  against  you!  " 

Again  that  cry  of  joy — again  that  clinging,  straining 
clasp. 

"Thank  Heaven!  thank  Heaven!  Everard,  dearest,  I 
can  not  tell  you — I  can  not — how  miserable  1  have  been! 
If  I  lost  your  love  1  should  die!  Trust  me,  my  husband 
— trust  me!  Love  me!  I  have  no  one  left  in  the  wide 
world  but  you!" 

She  broke  down  in  a  wild  storm  of  womanly  weeping. 
He  held  her  in  silence — the  hysterics  did  her  good.  He 
only  knew  that  he  loved  her  with  a  passionate,  consuming 
love,  and  not  ten  million  secrets  could  keep  them  apart. 

Presently  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  very 
pale,  and  with  wild,  wide  eyes  of  fear. 

"  Everard,  have  you — have  you  seen  that  man?" 

His  hoart  contracted  with  a  sudden  sharp  pang,  but  he 
strove  to  restrain  himself  and  bo  culm. 

"  Parmalee?    Yes,  Harrie;  I  loft  him  not  an  hour  ago." 

*'  And  he— Everard.  for  God's  sake—" 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


153 


Her  white  lips  refused  to  finisli  the  sentence. 

"  He  told  me  nothing,  Ilarrie,'*  and  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart  tinged  his  voice  in  spite  of  himself.  "  You  and  he 
keep  your  secrets  well,  lie  told  me  nothing,  and  he  is 
gone.     He  will  never  come  back  here  more." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  suspiciously,  as  he  said  it. 
AlasI  the  intermittent  fever  was  taking  its  hot  fit  again. 
But  she  dropped  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  hid  it. 

"  Has  lie  left  the  villasre,  Everard?"  very  faintly. 

"  I  nan  not  say.  I  only  know  I  have  forbid^len  him  this 
place,"  he  replied,  in  a  hard,  wrung  voice.  "  Harrie, 
Harrie,  my  little  wife!  You  are  very  merciless!  You  are 
torturing  me,  and  1 — I  would  die  to  save  you  an  instant's 
pain!" 

At  that  eloquent  cry  she  slipped  out  of  his  arms  and  fell 
on  her  knees  before  him,  her  clasped  hands  hiding  her  face. 

"  May  God  grant  me  a  short  life!"  was  her  frenzied  cry, 
"'  for  I  never  can  tell  you — never,  Everard,  not  on  my  dy- 
ing bed — the  secret  I  have  sworn  to  keep!" 

"  Sworn  to  keep!"  It  flashed  upon  him  like  a  revela- 
tion.    "  Sworn  to  whom?  to  your  father,  Harrie?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me!  I  can  tell  you  nothing — I  dare  not! 
I  am  bound  by  an  awful  vow!  And,  oh,  I  think  I  am  the 
most  wretched  creature  in  the  wide  world !' ' 

He  raised  her  up;  he  kissed  the  white,  despairing  face 
again  and  again — a  rain  of  rapturous  kisses.  A  ton  weight 
seemed  suddenly  lifted  otf  his  heart. 

'*  I  see  it  all,"  he  cried — '*  1  see  it  all  now!  Fool  that  I 
was  not  to  understand  sooner.  There  was  some  mystery, 
some  guilt,  perhaps,  in  Captain  Hunsden's  life,  and  he 
revealed  it  to  you  on  his  death-bed,  and  made  you  swear  to 
keep  his  secret.     Am  I  not  right?" 

She  did  not  look  up.  He  could  feel  her  shivering  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Yes,  Everard." 

*'  And  this  man — this  American — has  in  some  way  found 
it  out,  and  wishes  to  trade  upon  it,  to  extort  money  from 
you?  I  have  often  heard  of  such  things.  Am  I  right 
again?" 

'*  Yes,  Everard,"  very  faint  and  sad. 

'*  Then,  my  own  dearest,  leave  me  to  deal  with  him;  see 
him  and  fear  him  no  more.     1  will  seek  him  out.     I  will 


nii 


'^1 


U! 


1S4 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


il 


not  ask  to  know  it.  1  will  pay  him  his  price  and  iecd 
him  about  his  bnsiness." 

He  rose  impetuously  as  he  spoke,  eager  to  rid  himself  of 
his  incubus  on  the  spot.  But  Harriet  clung  to  him  with 
a  strange,  white  face. 

*'  No,  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "  It  would  not  do.  You 
could  not  satisfy  him.  You  donH  know — "  She  stopped 
distractedly.  '*  Oh,  Everard,  I  can^t  explain.  You  are 
all  kindness,  all  generosity,  ail  goodness;  but  I  must  set- 
tle with  this  man  myself.  Don't  go  near  him — don't  ask 
to  see  him.     It  could  do  no  good. ' 

He  withdrew  himself  from  her,  freezing  to  marble  at 
once. 

"  I  am  not  right,  then,  after  all.  The  secret  is  yours, 
not  your  father's?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me!  If  the  sin  is  not  mine,  the  atonement 
— the  bitter  atonement — is,  at  least.  Everard,  look  at  me 
— see!  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  would  not  tell 
you  a  lie.  I  never  committed  a  deed,  I  never  indulgea  a 
thought  of  my  own,  you  are  not  free  to  know.  I  never 
saw  this  man  until  that  day  in  the  library.  Oh,  believe 
this  and  trust  me,  and  don't  ask  me  to  break  my  oath!"' 

"  1  will  not!"  He  bent  over  her  with  unutterable  love, 
and  kissed  the  beautiful,  pleading  face.  "  I  believe  you; 
I  trust  you.  1  ask  no  more.  Get  rid  of  this  man,  and  be 
happy  once  again.  We  will  not  even  talk  of  it  longer;  and 
— will  you  come  with  me  to  my  mother's,  Harrie?  I  dine 
there,  you  know,  to-day." 

"My  head  aches.  Not  to-day,  I  think.  What  time 
will  you  return?" 

"  Before  ten."  He  pulled  out  his  watch.  "  And,  as  I 
have  a  little  magisterial  business  to  transact  down  in  the 
village,  it  is  time  I  was  off.  Adieu,  my  own  love!  Forget 
the  harsh  words,  and  be  my  own  happy,  radiant,  beautiful 
bride  once  more.^' 

She  lifted  her  face  and  smiled — a  smile  as  wan  and  fleet- 
ing as  moonlight  on  snow. 

Sir  Everard  hastened  to  his  room  to  dress,  striving  with 
all  his  might  to  drive  every  suspicion  out  of  his  mind. 

He  must  trust  and  hope,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as  for 
hers,  for 

"  To  be  wroth  with  one  wo  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain." 


THE    BATlONET'n    BRIDE. 


I6t 


And  she — she  flun^  hoj'self  on  the  sofa,  face  downward, 
afid  lay  there  as  if  she  novor  cared  to  rise  again. 

"  Papa,  papa!"  hIio  Mailed,  "  what  have  you  done — 
what  have  yon  done?'* 

All  that  day  Lady  Kingsland  kept  her  room.  Tier  maid 
brought  her  what  she  wanted.  Sir  Everard  returned  at 
the  appointed  hour,  looking  gloon^y  and  downcast. 

His  evening  at  his  ni  )ther's  had  not  been  a  pleasant  one 
— that  was  evident,  lerhaps  some  vague  hint  of  the  dark- 
ening mystery  had  already  reached  The  Grange. 

"  My  mother  feels  rather  hurt,  Ilarrio,^^  he  said,  some- 
what coldly,  "  that  you  did  not  accompany  me.  She  is 
unable  to  call  on  you,  owing  to  a  severe  cold.  Mildred  is 
absorbed  in  waiting  upon  her,  and  desires  to  see  you  ex- 
ceedingly. I  promised  them  we  would  both  dine  there  to- 
morrow and  spend  the  evening. " 

His  tone  admitted  of  no  refusal.  But  Harris  was  too 
spiritless  and  worn  to  offer  any. 

"  As  you  please,  Everard"  she  said,  wearily.  "  It  is  all 
tho  same  to  me. " 

She  descended  to  breakfast  nexl  morning  carefully  dressed 
to  meet  the  fastidious  eye  of  her  husband.  But  she  eat 
nothing.  A  gloomy  presentiment  of  impending  evil 
weighed  down  her  heart  like  lead.  Her  husband  made  lit- 
tle effort  to  rouse  her — the  contagious  gloom  affected  him, 
too. 

"  It  is  the  weather,  I  dare  say,"  he  remarked,  looking 
out  at  the  bleak,  wintery  day,  the  leaden  sky,  the  wailing 
wind.  "  This  February  gloom  is  enough  to  give  a  man  the 
megrims.  I  must  face  it,  too,  for  to-day  I  '  meet  the  cap- 
tains at  the  citadel ' — thak  is  to  say,  I  promised  to  ride 
over  to  Major  Warden's  about  noon.  You  will  be  ready, 
Harrie,  when  I  return  to  accompany  me  to  The  Grange?" 

She  promised,  and  he  departed ;  and  then,  with  a  slow 
and  weary  step.  Lady  Kingsland  ascended  to  her  own 
apartment. 

While  she  stood  there,  gazing  blankly  out  at  the  gray 
desolation  of  the  February  morning,  there  was  a  soft  tap 
at  the  door. 

"  Come  in!"  she  said,  thinking  it  her  maid;  and  thedoor 
opened,  and  Sybilla  Silver,  shod  with  the  shoes  of  silence, 
entered. 

Lady  Kingsland  faced  round  and  looked  a*"  her.    How 


ili 


i: 


156 


THE    BAYONET'S    TRTDE. 


!    !* 


m'      1 


handsome  slie  was!  That  was  her  first  involuntary  thonghfc. 
Her  sweeping  bHcK  robes  leli  around  her  tall,  I'ogal  figure 
with  queenly  graoe,  the  blade  eyes  sparkled  with  living 
lUiht,  a  more  vivid  scarlet  than  usual  lighted  up  each 
dusky  cheek.  She  looked  gloriously  beautiful  standing 
there.  Mr.  Parmalee  would  surely  have  been  dazzled  had 
he  seen  her. 

There  was  [i  moment's  pause.  The  two  women  eyed 
each  other,  us  accomplished  swordsmen  may  on  the  eve  of 
a  di\<J.  Very  pnle,  very  proud,  looked  my  lady.  Hlie  dis- 
liked and  distrusted  this  brilliant,  black-e3'ed  Miss  hjilvcr, 
and  Miss  Silver  knew  it  well. 

"You  wish  to  speak  with  me,  Miss  Silver?"  my  lady 
said,  in  her  most  superb  manner. 

*'  Yes,  my  lady — most  particularly,  and  (juite  alone.  ] 
beg  your  pardon,  but  your  maid  is  not  within  liearlng,  f 
crust  ?*' 

"  We  are  quite  alone,"  very  coldly.  "  Speak  out;  no 
one  can  overhear  you.'* 

"  I  do  not  care  for  myself,"  Sybilla  said,  her  glittering 
black  eyes  meeting  the  proud  gray  cues.  "  It  is  for  your 
sake,  my  lady." 

"  For  my  sake!"  in  haughty  omaze.  "You  can  have 
nothing  to  say  to  me.  Miss  Silver,  the  whole  world  may  not 
overhear.  If  yo'^.  intend  to  he  impertinent.  I  shall  order 
you  out  of  the  room. " 

"  One  moment,  my  lady:  you  go  to  fast.  The  whole 
world  may  not  overhear  the  message  Mr.  Parmalee  sends 
you  by  me." 

"  Ah!"— my  lady  recoiled  as  though  ai^  adder  had  stung 
her — "always  that  m^n!  Speak  ou^  then" — turning; 
swiftly  upon  her  husbmd's  protegee — "  what  is  the  mes- 
sage this  man  sends  me  by  you?" 

"  That  if  you  do  jot  meet  him  within  two  days,  he  will 
sell  your  secret  to  the  highest  bidder." 

Sybilla  delivered,  word  for  word,  the  words  of  the  Amer- 
ican  —  cruelly,  slowly,  sigmiicantly  —  looking  her  still 
straight  in  the  eyes.  Those  clear  gray  eyes  flashed  with  a 
tierce,  defiant  light, 

"  You  know  all?"  she  cried. 

Sybilla  Silver  bowed  her  head. 

"  1  know  all,"  she  answered. 

Dead  silence  fell.     White  as  a  dead  woman,  Lady  Kings- 


THE    ]JAII<)N1:T.S    JMtlUE. 


167 


ch 


land  stood,  liur  eyes  abla/c;  vvifli  fioroe,  coiKsuniiii:;  firu. 
Sybillii  liitulo  a  stcf)  forward,  sunk  down  buforo  Iiur,  and 
lifted  liur  liaiid  to  lur  Jips. 

"  Ho  told  ni(i  all,  my  dear  lady;  but  your  secrot  is  safo 
with  me.  fSybiMa  will  bo  your  true  and  faitbftd,  though 
hunddo,  irieiid,  if  you  will  let  her.  J)tar  Lady  Kingsland, 
don't  look  at  nio  with  that  stony,  angry  face.  J  luive  n'l 
wish  but  to  servo  you/' 

TJic  gracious  speeeh  met  with  but  an  ungracious  return. 
My  hidy  snatched  hv,v  hand  away,  as  though  from  a  snake, 
and  gazed'  at  her  with  iiashing  eyes  of  scorji  and  distrust. 

"  What  are  you  to  this  man.  Miss  Silver?"  she  asked. 
'*  Why  should  he  tell  you?" 

"  I  am  his  plighted  wife,"  replied  Sybilla,  trying  to  call 
up  a  conscious  blush. 

"  Ah,  I  see!"  my  lady  said,  scornfully.  '*  Permit  mo 
to  coi:gr.'itulate  you  on  tiic  excellent  execution  your  bltick 
eyes  have  wrought.  You  are  a  very  clever  girl.  Miss  Sil- 
ver, and  I  think  I  understand  you  thoroughly,  i  am  oidy 
surprised  you  did  not  carry  your  discovery  straight  to  ►Sir 
Everard  Kingsluiid. " 

'*  Your  ladyship  is  most  unjust,"  Sybilla  Hiiid,  turning 
away,  ''  unkind  and  cruel.  I  have  delivered  my  message, 
and  I  will  go." 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  my  hidv  said,  in  her  clear  sweet 
voice,  luM* proud  faoo  gleaming  with  a  (tynical  smile.  "  To- 
Hiorrow  evening  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  see  Mr. 
Parmalee — there  is  to  be  a  dinner-jjurty  at  the  house — 
during  the  day  still  more  imi)08sible.  Since  he  commands 
me  to  see  him,  I  will  do  so  to-night,  and  throw  over  my 
other  engagements.  At  eight  this  evening  I  will  be  in  the 
IJeech  Walk,  and  alone.  Let  Mr.  Parmalee  come  to  me 
there." 

A  gleam  of  diabolical  triumph  lighted  up  the  great  black 
cjcs  of  rSybilla,  but  the  profound  bow  she  made  concealed 
it. 

**  1  will  tell  him,  my  lady,"  she  said,  "  and  he  will  be 
there  without  lail." 

She  (|U)*,ted  the  room,  closed  the  door,  and  looked  back 
at  it  as  Satan  may  have  looked  back  at  Kdcn  after  van- 
quishing Eve. 

"  My  triumph  begins,"  she  said  to  herself.     "■  I  have 


!'(! 


!^ 


I 


.'i 


'M 


i 


158 


THE    riAIlONET'S    BRIDE. 


caught  you  nicely  this  time,  my  lady.     You  and  Mr.  Par- 
muleo  will  not  bo  alniio  in  tlie  IJeooh  Walk  to-night.'* 

Left  to  herself,  Harriet  stood  for  a  moment  motionless. 
With  all  her  pride  and  her  strength  gone,  she  sunk  down 
into  her  laeat,  hor  hands  clasped  over  her  heart. 

"  She  too,'*  she  murmured,  "  my  arch-enemy!  Oh,  my 
God,  help  mo  to  bear  it— help  me  to  keep  tlio  horrible 
truth  from  the  husband  1  love!  She  will  not  tell  him. 
She  knows  he  would  never  endure  hor  from  the  hour  she 
would  make  the  revelation;  and  that  thought  alone  re- 
strains her.  It  will  kill  me — this  agonizing  fear  and  hor- 
ror 1  And  better  so — better  to  die  now,  while  ho  loves  me, 
than  live  to  be  hated  and  loathed  when  he  discovers  the 
truth!" 

Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  riding  home  in  the  yellow,  win- 
tery  sunset,  found  my  lady  lying  on  a  lounge  in  her  boudoir, 
her  maid  beside  her,  bathing  her  forehead  with  eau-de- 
Oolognc.  His  brow  contracted  with  a  little  spasm  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Headache  again,  Harrie?"  he  said.  "  You  are  grow- 
ing a  complete  martyr  to  tliat  feminine  malady  of  late.  I 
had  hoped  to  find  you  dressed  and  ready  to  accompany  me 
to  The  Grange.*' 

"  I  »m  sorry,  Everard,  but  this  evening  it  is  impossible. 
Make  my  excuses  to  her  ladyship,  and  tell  her  1  hope  to 
see  her  soon." 

She  did  not  look  up  as  she  said  it,  and  her  husband, 
stooping,  imprinted  a  kiss  on  the  colorless  cheek. 

"  My  poor,  pale  girl!  1  will  send  Edwards  with  an 
apology  to  The  Grange,  and  remain  at  home  with  you." 

"  No!"  Harriet  cried,  hastily;  "  not  on  any  account. 
You  must  not  disappoint  your  mother,  Everard;  you  must 
go.  There,  good-bye!  It  is  time  you  were  dressing.  Don't 
mind  me;  I  will  be  better  when  you  return." 

But  he  lingered  still,  with  a  strangely  yearning,  troubled 
face. 

*'  I  feel  as  though  1  ought  not  to  leave  you  to-night,"  he 
said.  "  It  seems  heartless,  and  you  ill.  1  had  better  send 
Edwards  and  the  apology." 

'*  You  foolish  boy!"  She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled, 
with  eyes  full  of  tears.  "  I  will  bo  better  alone  and  quiet. 
Sleep  and  solitude  will  quite  restore  me.     Go!  goJ    You 


THE   baronet's   BRIDE. 


16J 


will  be  late  as  it  is,  and  my  latly  dislikes  being  kept  wait- 
ing. " 

He  kissed  her  and  went,  casting  one  long,  lingering  back- 
ward look  at  tho  wife  ho  loved.  And  with  a  pang  bitterer 
than  death  camo  tho  rcmoinbranco  afterward  of  how  she 
had  urged  him  to  leave  lier  tliat  night. 

Thus  they  parted — to  look  into  each  other's  eyes  no  more 
in  love  and  trust  for  a  dark  and  tragic  time. 

Sybilla  Silver,  standing  at  the  houje  door,  was  gazing 
out  at  the  yellow  February  sun  sinking  pale  and  watery 
into  the  livid  horizon  line,  as  the  baronet  ran  down-staira, 
drawing  on  his  gloves.  Ho  paused,  with  his  usual  court* 
osy,  to  speak  to  his  dependent  as  he  went  by. 

•'  Th'3  sky  yonder  looks  ominous,"  ho  said,  *'  and  thia 
wailing,  icy  blast  is  the  very  desolation  of  desolation. 
There  is  a  stor?,i  brewing." 

Miss  Silver's  black  eyes  gleamed,  and  her  white  teeth 
showed  in  a  sinister  smile. 

*'  A  storm?"  she  repeated.  "  Yes,  I  think  there  is,  and 
yon  will  be  caught  m  it.  Sir  Everard,  if  you  stay  late. 
The  storm  will  break  very  soon  I" 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

AT  NIGHT  IN  THE  BEECH  WALK. 

The  instant  Sir  Everard  was  out  of  sight  Sybilla  ran  up 
to  her  chamber,  and  presently  reappeared,  dressed  for  a 
ival't. 

Even  the  long,  shrouding  mantle  she  wore  could  not 
disguise  the  exquisite  symmetry  of  her  graceful  form,  and 
tho  thick  brown  veil  could  not  dim  the  luster  of  her  tlash- 
ing  Assyrian  eyes.  She  smiled  back,  before  flitting  away, 
>\t  the  dark,  bright,  sparkling  face  her  mirror  showed  her. 

"  Youjiaro  a  very  pretty  person,  my  dear  Miss  Silver," 
she  said — "  prettier  even  than  my  lady  herself,  though  1 
fiay  it.  Worlds  have  been  lost  for  leas  handsome  faces  than 
this  in  the  glorious  days  gone  by,  ami  Mr.  Parmaleo  will 
have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  wife — when  he  geta 
her." 

She  ran  lightly  down-stairs,  a  saroastio  smile  still  on  h«p 
Jiips«.  In  the  lower  hall  stood  Mr.  Edwards,  the  valet,  dis- 
consolately gazing  at  the  threatening  prospect.    He  turoed 


M  1 


Lil 


1 1' 


160 


THE    TIATIOTTFT'S    BRTDF. 


around,  and  hiadull  oyoK  liglitod  up  at  sight  of  thifl  dark- 
ling viwion  of  beauty — for  Mr.  I'armaleo  was  by  no  means 
tlut  only  gontloman  with  the  {^ood  tasto  to  adniiro  hand- 
some Sybilla. 

'*  (loing  hout,  Miss  Hilvor!"  Mr.  Edwards  asked,  in 
languid  surprise.  "  lluncommon  urgent  your  business 
must  bo  to  take  you  from  'omo  suoli  a  Iievening  as  this. 
'Ow'n  my  lady?" 

"  My  iady  is  not  at  all  well,  Mr.  Edwards/'  answered 
Rybilla.  "  Sir  Everard  was  obliged  to  go  alone  to  his 
mother's,  my  lady's  headache  is  so  intense.  (Uaudino  is 
with  her,  I  believe.  We  are  going  to  have  a  storm,  are  wo 
not?    I  shall  be  obliged  to  hurry  back." 

She  flitted  away  as  she  spoke,  drawing  down  her  veil, 
and  disappearing  while  yet  Mr.  Edwards  was  trying  to 
make  a  languid  proffer  of  his  services  as  escort,  llo 
lounged  easily  up  against  the  window,  gazing  with  calm 
admiration  after  her. 

'*  An  huncommon  'andsomo  and  lady-looking  young 
pusson  that,"  rollected  Sir  Everard's  gentleman.  "I 
shouldn't  mind  basking  her  to  be  my  missus  one  of  these 
days.  That  face  of  hers  and  them  dashing  ways  would 
take  helegantly  behind  the  bar  of  a  public. " 

Unconscious  of  the  admiration  she  was  eliciting  in  the 
bosom  of  Mr.  Edwards,  Sybilla  sped  on  her  way  down  the 
village  to  the  Blue  Bell.  Just  before  she  reached  the  inn 
she  encountered  Mr.  Parmalee  himself,  taking  a  constitu- 
tional, a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  his  hands  deep  in  his 
trousers  pockets.  Ho  met  and  greeted  his  fair  betrothed 
with  natural  phlegm. 

"  How  do,  Sybilla?"  nodding  and  smoking  steadily  on. 
"  1  kind  of  thought  you'd  be  after  me,  and  so  1  stejiped 
out.  You've  been  and  delivered  that  there  little  message 
of  mine,  I  suppose?" 

*'  Yes,"  said  Sybilla;  *'  and  she  will  meet  you  to-night 
in  the  Beech  Walk,  and  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say." 

*'The  deuce  she  will!"  said  the  artist;  "and  have  her 
fire-eating  husband  catch  us  and  set  the  flunkies  at  me. 
Not  if  1  know  myself.  If  my  lady  wants  to  hear  what 
I've  got  to  say,  lot  my  lady  come  to  me." 

"  She  never  will,"  responded  Sybilla.  "  You  don't 
know  her.  Don't  be  an  idiot,  George — do  as  she  requestSo 
Meet  her  to-night  in  the  Beech  Walk," 


THE  baronet's  hHitm, 


161 


•k- 


-''  And  Imvo  tho  baronot  como  u])on  usliko  a  roaring  lion 
m  tho  middio  of  our  confab!  Look  horo,  Sybilla,  I  ain't  a 
cowardly  foUcr,  you  know,  in  tho  main;  but,  by  (ioorgo! 
it  ain't  ])loa8ant  to  bo  hor8uwhim)od  by  an  outragooua 
young  baronet  or  kicked  from  tuo  gatos  by  his  under- 
Htram)or8." 

"  Tliore  18  no  danger.  Sir  Evorard  is  not  at  homo,  and 
will  not  1)0  before  ton  o'clock  at  least,  lie  ia  gone  to  dine 
at  The  (i range  with  his  mother;  and  my  lady  was  to  have 
gone  too.  but  your  message  frightenotl  her,  and  she  told 
him  little  white  lies,  and  insisted  on  his  going  by  himself. 
And,  you  silly  old  8tuj)id,  if  you  had  two  ideas  in  your 
head,  you  would  see  that  this  o})portunity  of  braving  his 
express  command,  and  entering  the  lion's  den  to  meet  his 
wife  by  night  and  by  stealth,  ia  the  most  gloriouj*  o])por- 
tunity  of  revenge  you  could  have.  Sir  Evorard  is  nearly 
mud  with  jealousy  and  suspicion  already.  What  will  he  be 
when  he  finds  his  wife  of  a  month  has  lied  to  him  to  ■  '.eet 
you  alone  and  in  secret  at  the  Beech  Walk?  1  tell  you, 
Mr.  Parmalee,  you  will  be  gloriously  revenged !" 

**  13y  thunder!''  cried  tho  artist,  '*  1  never  thought  of 
that.  I'll  do  it,  Sybilla— I'll  do  it,  so  help  me!  Tell  my 
lady  I'll  bo  there  right  on  the  minute;  and  do  you  take 
care  that  confounded  conceited  baronet  finds  it  out.  I 
said  I'd  pay  him  off  for  every  blow,  and  I'll  do  it,  by  the 
Eternal  !^^ 

"  And  strike  through  her!"  hissed  Sybilla,  with  glitter- 
ing black  eyes,  "  and  every  blow  will  go  straight  through 
the  core  of  his  proud  heart.  We'll  torture  him,  (leorgo 
Parmalee,  t»o  man  never  was  tortured  before." 

Mr.  Parmalee  looked  at  her,  rather  taken  aback,  as  he 
always  was  when  she  burst  out  with  the  deadly  inward  firo 
that  tilled  her. 

*'  What  a  little  devil  you  are,  Sybilla!"  he  said,  with 
lover-like  candor.  '*  I've  hoard  tell  that  you  wimmin 
knock  us  men  into  a  cocked  hat  in  the  way  of  hating,  and 
I  now  begin  to  think  it  ia  true.  What  has  this  'ere  bar- 
onet done  to  you,  I  should  admire  to  know?  You  don't 
liate  him  like  the  old  sarpent  for  nothing." 

"  What  has  he  done  to  me?"  rei)eated  Sybilla,  with  a 
strange,  slow  smile.  **  That  is  easily  told.  He  gave  me 
a  home  when  I  was  homeless;  ho  was  my  friend  when  I 
wai  friendless.    I  have  broken  liii:!  bread  and  drunk  of  his 


I  1 


V   I  I 

iii 


162 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


lit  I 
11 


f 


I  h 


cup,  and  slept  under  his  roof,  and — I  hato  him,  I  hate 
him,  I  hate  film!" 

Her  hands  and  teeth  clinched  in  a  deadly  spasm  of  sup- 
pressed fury;  her  two  eyes  blazed  like  lurid  l^ames.  Mr. 
Farmaleo  tooii  out  his  cigar  and  stared  at  her  in  horror. 

*'  1  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  Silver,"  he  said,  after  an 
aghast  pause,  "  I  don't  like  this  sort  of  thing — I  don't,  by 
George!  I  ain't  surjirised  at  a  person  hating  a  pe»3on,  be- 
caui?o  1  hate  him  myself;  but  for  a  young  woman  that  is 
going  to  be  my  wife  to  cut  up  like  this  here,  and  eweftr 
everlasting  vengeance — well,  I  don't  like  it  You  see, 
wild  cats  ain't  the  most  comfortable  sort  of  pets  a  man 
can  have  in  his  house,  and  how  do  I  know  but  it  may  ba 
my  turn  next?" 

Miss  Silver  laughed,  and  her  face  cleared  instantly.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face  with 
shining,  bewitching  eyes. 

*'  You  precious  old  stupid!  As  if  I  could  hate  you,  if  I 
tried.  No,  no,  George;  you  may  truot  Sybilla.  The  wild 
cat  will  sheathe  her  cla^v^s  in  triple  folds  of  velvet  for  you." 

"Humph!"  said  Mr.  Paiuialoe;  "but  the  claws  will 
still  be  there.  However,  1  ain't  a-going  to  quarrel  with 
you  about  it.  I  like  a  spunky  woman,  and  I  hate  him. 
I'll  meet  my  lady  to-night,  ahd  you  see  that  my  lady's 
husband  finds  it  out." 

"  Until  then,"  responded  Sybilla,  folding  her  mantle 
closer  about  her,  "  remember  the  hour — eight  sharp — and 
don't  keep  her  waiting.     Before  he  sleeps  to-night  the 

fn'oudest  baronet  in  the  realm  shall  know  why  his  wife  de- 
iberately  deceived  him  to  meet  a  strange  man  by  night  and 
by  stealth  in  the  park,  where  her  husband  had  ordered 
him  never  to  set  foot  again." 

She  fluttered  away  in  the  chill  spring  twilight  with  the 
last  words,  leaving  her  fiance  gazing  after  her  with  an  ex- 
pression that  was  not  altogether  unmixed  admiration. 

"  I'll  be  darned  if  I  ever  met  the  like  of  you.  Miss  Sil- 
ver, in  all  my  travels.  You  might  be  own  sister  to  Luci- 
fer himself  for  wickedness  and  reveagefulness.  Ill  find 
out  what's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  cantankerous  spite  be- 
fore I  make  you  Mrs.  G.  W".  Parmaleo,  or  I'll  know  the 
reason  why.  It's  all  very  fine  to  have  a  handsome  wiie, 
with  big  Dlaek  eyes  and  a  spunky  spirit,  but  a  leUaw 


THE   BAEOli^rr's    BRIDE. 


163 


»> 


doMn't  want  a  wife  that  will  bury  the  carving-kuife  in 
him  the  fli-ot  time  he  contrailicts  her." 

Sybilla  was  a  good  walker;  ;he  last  yellow  lino  of  the 
r/ater,  February  sariset  had  hardly  faded  as  she  tripped  up 
the  lor-g  drive  under  the  gaunt,  tossing  trees.  Mr.  Ed- 
wards still  lounged  in  elegant  leisure  in  the  hall,  convers- 
ing with  a  gigantic  young  footman,  and  his  fishy  eyes 
kindled  for  the  second  time  as  Sybilla  appeared,  ilushed 
and  bright  and  s{)iirkling,  after  her  windy,  twilight  walk. 

"  I  have  outstiip|)ed  the  storm  after  all,  ycu  see,"  sho 
remarked,  with  a  gay  little  laugh,  as  she  went  by.  "I 
don't  believe  we  shall  have  it  before  midnight.  Oh,  Clau- 
dine!  is  my  lady  in  her  room?  I  have  been  on  an  errand 
for  her  down  the  village." 

She  had  encountered  the  jaunty  little  Fi*ench  girl  on  the 
upper  landing,  and  paused  to  put  the  question. 

'*  Yes,"  Claudint-  sjiid.  '*  Madame's  headache  was 
easier.     She  is  nading  in  her  dressing-room." 

Sybilla  tapj)ed  at  the  dressing-room  door,  then  turned 
the  hancUe  and  entereil.  It  was  an  exquisite  little  bijou 
of  a  chamber,  with  fluted  walls  of  rose  silk,  and  delicious 
plump  beautifi!  willi  bare  shoulders  and  melting  eyes,  by 
Greuze.  A  wi;ck1  tire  nickered  on  the  marble  hearth,  and 
was  Hashed  bat.k  fn.ni  lofty  mirrors  as  fcall  as  the  room. 

This  llickeriiig  blaze,  and  the  ghostly  twilight  creeping 
grayly  in  between  the  roi?y  silken  curtains,  left  the  room 
in  a  fantastic  mixture  of  light  and  shadow. 

Lying  back  in  an  arm-chair,  her  book  fallen  aimlessly 
on  her  lap,  her  dark,  deep  eyes  looking  straight  before  her 
into  the  evening  gloaming.  My  lady  sat  alone. 

The  melancholy  wash  of  the  waves  on  the  shore,  the 
mournful  sighing  of  the  evening  wind  among  the  groan- 
ing trees,  the  monotonous  ticking  of  a  dainty  buld  clock, 
and  the  light  fall  of  the  cinders  sounded  abnormally  loud 
in  the  deail  silence  of  the  apartment 

Lady  Kingsland  turned  round  at  the  opening  of  the 
door,  and  her  face  hardened  into  that  fixedly  cold,  proud 
look  it  ai\fays  wore  at  sight  of  her  husbard's  brilliant 
protegee. 

In  her  trailing  blaci  robes  Miss  Silver  stood  before  hir 
in  the  mysterious  half-light  like  some  tall,  dark  ghost. 

*'I  have  been  to  the  village,  my  lady,"  Sybilla  said. 


<li 


:s4 


XtllU 


baronet's  bride. 


I 


i 


l!   1= 


"I  liavo  seen  Mr.  Pjirrnaloo.  He  will  be  in  the  Beech 
Wiilk  [)r<'(.'is<'ly  !i(.  eight. '' 

iM y  iiicly  bent  hur  huail  in  cold  acknowledgment.  Sybilla 
|)tiiKsi.!il  ail  iiidiatit,  detorniinod  to  make  her  speak. 

"  (Juii  f  be  of  service  to  you  in  any  way  in  this  matter, 
iny  liiily?''  yiie  iuslvod, 

"Yon?"  in  jiroiid  surprise.  "Certainly  not.  I  wish 
to  be  alone.  Miss  Silvui       Bo  ,c;cod  enou;,di  to  ij;o." 

8ybilla's  little  brown  fiot  clinched  itself  furiously,  onco 
on  the  lauding  outside. 

"  1  can't  humble  herJ"  she  tliought.  *' I  can't  make 
her  fear  me.  1  can't  triumph  over  her,  do  what  I  will. 
1  have  her  secret  and  1  hold  her  in  my  i)Ower,  but  she  is 
prouder  than  Lucifer  himself,  and  she  would  let  me  stand 
forth  and  tell  all,  and  if  one  pleading  word  would  stop  me, 
she  would  not  say  it.  '  The  brave  may  die,  but  can  not 
yield  I'    She  should  have  been  a  man." 

She  went  to  the  window  and  drew  out  her  watch;  it 
wanted  a  quarter  of  eight.  The  pretty  little  enameled 
trinket  had  been  a  recent  gift  of  the  princely  young  bar- 
onet— her  initials  glittered  on  the  case — but,  preparing  to 
stab  him  to  the  heart,  she  looked  at  it  without  one  com- 
punctious twinge. 

"  In  fifteen  minutes  my  lady  goes;  in  fifteen  more  1 
shall  follow  her,  and  not  alone.  1  am  afraid  Sir  Ever- 
ard's  slumbors  will  be  rather  disturbed  to-night." 

The  last  yellow  gleam  of  the  dying  day  Wiis  gone,  and  a 
sickly,  pallid  moon  glimmered  dully  among  drifts  of  Hciid- 
ding  black  clouds.  An  icy  blast  wailed  up  from  the  sea, 
and  the  roeknig  trees  were  like  dryad  specters  in  writh- 
ing agony.  The  distant  Ikech  Walk  looked  black  and 
grim  and  ghostly  in  the  weird  light. 

A  great  clock  high  up  in  a  windy  turret  struck  eight. 
A  moment  after  the  door  of  my  lady's  dressing-room 
opened.  A  dark,  shrouded  figure  emerged,  flitted  swiftly 
down  the  long  gallery,  dc^n  the  sweeping  stair-way,  ani 
vanished. 

Sybilla  Silver  stood  like  an  efligy  in  stone,  listening  with 
a  smile  on  her  lips — and  her  smile  was  the  smile  of  a 
demon. 

Ten  minutes  later  Edwards,  yawning  forlornly,  still  in 
the  entrance  hall,  beheld  Miss  Silver  coming  toward  him 
with  an  anxious  face,  a  large  shawl  thrown  over  hmr  head. 


THE  baronet's  eride. 


165 


onco 


aud 


"  Goir'»  out  agaiu?"  tho  valot  exclaimed.  '*  And  suoh 
a  nasty  night,  too.  You  are  fond  of  walking,  Miss  S., 
and  no  mistake." 

"  I'm  not  going  for  a  walk,"  said  Sybilla.  "  1  am  go- 
ing to  look  for  a  locket  1  lost  this  afternoon.  I  was  out  in 
tiie  park,  in  the  direction  of  the  Beech  Walk,  and  there  I 
must  have  dropped  it." 

"  Better  wait  until  to-morrow,"  suggested  Edwards. 
*'  The  wind's  'owling  through  the  trees,  and  it's  colder 
than  the  Ilarctic  regions.     Better  ivait. " 

*'  1  can  not.  The  locket  was  a  present,  and  1  value  it 
exceedingly,  I  thought  of  asking  you  to  accompany  me, 
Mr.  Edwards,  but  as  it  is  so  cold  perhaps  you  hjid  bettor 
not.'; 

*'  Oh,  I'll  go  with  pleasure!"  said  Mr.  Edwards.  *'  If 
you  can  stand  the  cold,  I  can,  I  dessay.  "Wait  till  1  get 
my  'at  and  hovercoat — 1  won't  be  a  minute. " 

Miss  {Silver  waited.  Mr.  Edwards  reappeared  in  a 
twinkling. 

*'  'Ad n't  I  better  fetch  a  lantern?"  he  suggested.  "  It 
will  be  himpossible  to  see  it,  heven  if  it  should  be  there." 

"  No,"  said  Sybilla.  "  The  moon  is  shining,  and  the 
Jocket  will  glimmer  on  the  snow.     Come!" 

She  took  his  arm,  and  they  started  at  a  brisk  pace  for 
tiie  Beech  Walk.  Tho  ground,  baked  hard  as  iron,  rang 
under  their  tread,  aud  whether  it  was  the  bitter  blast  or 
not,  Mr.  Edwards  could  not  tell,  but  his  companion's  face 
was  flushed  with  a  more  brilliant  glow,  in  the  ghostly 
moonlight,  than  he  had  ever  before  seen  there. 

Tiioy  reached  the  long  grove  of  magnificent  copper- 
beeches,  and  just  without  its  entrance  Miss  Silver  began 
8(iarching  foi  her  lost  locket.  The  white  snow  was  baked 
and  glittering,  but  no  shining  wheel  of  gold  sparkled  od 
its  radiant  surface. 

"  It  is  not  here,"  said  Sybilla.  *'  Let  us  go  further 
down — " 

She  paused  abruptly  at  a  sudden  gesture  of  her  com- 
panion. 

"  Uush!'  he  said.  **  There  is  somo  one  talking  in  tho 
Beech  Walk." 

Both  ))ansed  and  stood  stock  still.  Borne  unmistakably 
m  the  night  wind,  voices  came  to  them — the  soft  voice  of 
.h  woman,  the  dtoi/er  iou^a  of  a  mau. 


ii 


':  I 


i» 


't 


i:'' 


\ 


,'.    t 


166 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE 


"  Ono  of  the  maids,  I  dare  say,"  Sybilla  said,  eareiess- 
ly,  "  holding  tryst  with  her  lover." 

"  No,"  said  the  valet;  *'  not  one  of  the  maids  wovM  set 
foot  hinside  this  walk  hafter  nightfall  for  a  kingdom! 
They  say  it's  'aunted.  Come  forward  a  little,  and  lot's 
see  if  we  can't  'ave  a  look  at  the  talkers.  /Vhoevor  it  is, 
he's  hup  to  no  good,  I'll  be  bound!" 

Very  softly,  stealing  on  tiptoe,  the  twain  approached  the 
entrance  of  the  avenue.  The  watery  moonlight,  breaking 
through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  shono  out  for  an  instant 
above  the  trees,  and  showed  them  ii  man  and  a  woman, 
standing  face  to  face,  earnestly  talking.  The  man  stood 
leaning  against  a  tree,  his  hat  pulled  over  his  face;  the 
woman  stood  before  him,  the  dim  light  full  upon  her. 
Mr.  Edwards  barely  repressed  a  cry  of  consternation. 

"  Good  Lord!"  he  gasped;  *'  it's  my  lady!" 

"  Hush!"  cried  Sybilla,  in  a  fierce  whisper.  **  Who  is 
the  man?" 

As  if  some  inward  prescience  told  him  they  were  there, 
the  man  lifted  his  hat  at  that  very  instant,  and  plainly 
showed  his  face. 

"  The  Ilamorican,  by  Jove!"  again  gasped  the  horrified 
valet,  and  then  stood  staring  speechlessly. 

Sybilla  Silver's  eyes  blazed  like  coals  of  fire,  and  the 
demoniac  smile,  that  made  her  brilliant  beauty  hideous, 
gleamed  on  her  lips. 

She  grasped  the  man's  arm  with  slender  fingers  of  iron, 
and  stood  gloating  over  the  scene. 

Not  one  word  could  they  hear — the  distance  was  too 
great — but  they  could  see  my  lady's  passionate  gestures; 
thoy  could  see  the  white  hands  clasp  and  cover  her  face; 
they  could  see  her  wildly  excited,  even  in  that  dim  light. 
And  once  they  saw  her  take  from  her  pocket  her  purse, 
and  pour  a  handful  of  shining  sovereigns  into  Mr.  Parma- 
lee's  extended  hand. 

There  was  a  speechless  gasp  from  Mr.  Edwards  at  this 
awful  revelation — he  was  too  far  gone  for  words. 

They  stood  there  while  the  moments  wont,  unheeding 
the  icy  wind  that  arose  and  blew  more  fiercely  each  instant 
— unheeding  the  few  fiutterlug  snow  flakes  beginning  Uf 
fall. 

Nearly  an  hour  they  had  stood,  jnetrified  gazers,  when 
t>hey  were  aroused  aa  by  a  thunder- clap.     A  hone  oame 


THB    baronet's    BBIDB. 


U7 


ot 

i! 


galloping  furiously  up  the  avenue,  sis  only  one  rider  ever 
scalloped  there.  SybiUa  Silver  just  repressed  a  scream  of 
exultufcion — no  more. 

"It  is  Sir  Everard  Kingslandl"  she  cried,  in  a  whisper 
of  fiorco  delight,  *'  in  time  to  catch  his  siok  wife  in  the 
Beoch  Walk  with  the  man  he  hates!" 


ho 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

M  Y     LADY  'S     SECRET. 

It  was  quite  dark  before  prudent  Mr.  Parmalee,  not" 
witlistanding  Sybilla's  assurance  that  the  baronet  was  away 
from  home,  ventured  within  the  great  entrance  gates  of 
the  park.  He  was  not,  as  he  said  himself,  a  coward  alto- 
gether; but  he  had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  pummeling 
he  had  already  received,  and  a  wholesome  dread  of  the 
scientific  hitting  of  this  strong-fisted  young  aristocrat. 
When  he  did  venture,  his  coat-collar  was  so  pulled  up 
that  in  the  sickly  moon-rays  recognition,  even  had  they 
met,  was  next  to  impossible. 

Mr.  Parmalee,  smoking  a  cigar,  made  his  way  to  the 
Beech  Walk,  and  leaning  against  a  giant  tree,  stared  at 
the  watery  moon,  and  waited.  The  loud-voiced  turret 
clock  struck  eight  a  moment  after  he  had  taken  his  posi- 
tion. 

*'  Time  is  up,"  thought  the  photographer.  **  My  lady 
ought  to  be  here  now.  I'll  give  her  another  quarter.  If 
she  isn't  with  mo  in  that  time,  then  good-bye  to  Lady 
Kingsland  and  my  keeping  her  secret." 

Ten  minutes  passed.  As  he  replaced  his  watch  a  light 
step  sounded  on  the  frozen  snow,  a  shadow  darkened  the 
entrance,  and  Lady  Kingsland's  pale,  proud  faoo  looked 
fixedly  at  him  in  the  moonlight.  There  was  a  queenliness 
in  her  manner  that  impressed  even  the  unimpressionable 
American.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  threw  away  his  half- 
smoked  cigar. 

*•  My  Lady  Kingsland!" 

She  bowed  haughtily,  hovering  aloof. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  Mr.  Parmalee — that  is  youi 
name,  I  believe.     What  is  it  you  have  to  say  to  mo?" 

Her  proud  tone  restored  all  the  artist's  constitutional 
phlegm.  He  put  on  Im  hut,  and  returned  her  haughty 
gaze  coolly. 


(I. 


«<1 


im 


168 


THE    15AU0NET  S    BUIDE. 


1 


u 


h 


*'  1  don't  think  you  really  need  to  ask  that  question^  my 
iauy.     You  know  as  well  aa  1  do,  or  Fm  mistaken/" 

*'  Who  are  you?''  she  demanded,  impatiently,  impetu- 
ously. "  How  do  you  come  to  know  my  secret?  llow  do 
you  come  to  bo  possessed  of  that  picture?" 

"  I  told  you  before.     She  gave  it  to  me  herself." 

My  lady's  great  gray  eyes  dilated.  She  came  a  stej, 
nearer. 

*' For  God's  sake,  tell  me  the  truth!  Don't  deceive 
me!   Do  you  really  mean  it?   Have  you  really  seen  my — " 

She  stopped,  shuddering  in  some  horrible  inward  repul- 
sion from  head  to  foot. 

*'  I  really  have,"  rejoined  Mr.  Parmalce.  "  I  know  the 
—  the  party  in  question  like  a  book.  She  told  me  her 
story;  she  gave  me  her  picture  herself,  of  her  own  free 
will,  and  she  told  mo  where  to  find  you.  She  is  in  Lon- 
don now,  all  safe,  and  waiting — a  little  out  of  patience, 
though,  by  this  time,  1  dare  say." 

"Waiting!"  Lady  Kingsland  gasped  the  word  in  white 
terror.     "  Waiting  for  what?" 

"  To  see  you,  my  lady." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  My  lady  covered  her  face 
with  both  hands,  and  again  that  convulsive  shudder  shook 
her  from  head  to  fooii. 

"  She  is  very  penitent,  my  lady,"  Mr.  Parmalee  said,  in 
a  softer  tone.  "  She  is  very  poor,  and  ill  and  heart- 
broken. Even  you,  my  lady,  might  pity  and  forgive  her 
if  you  saw  her  now. " 

She  made  a  wild,  frantic  gesture  for  him  to  stop,  lu 
the  moonlight  her  face  was  utterly  ghastly. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  hush!  1  don't  want  to  hear.  Tell 
me  how  you  met  her  first.  I  never  heard  your  name  un- 
til that  day  in  the  library." 

"  Ko  more  you  didn't,"  said  the  artist.  "  You  see,  my 
lady,  it  was  pure  chance-work  from  first  to  last.  I  was 
coming  over  hero  on  a  little  speculation  of  my  own  in  tho 
photographic  line,  and,  being  low  in  pocket  and  j)retty 
well  used  to  rough  it,  1  was  tiomi ng  in  the  steerage.  1'hero 
was  a  pretty  hard  crowd  of  us — Dutch  and  Irish  and  all 
sorts  mixed  up  there — an'  among  'em  one  that  looked  as 
much  out  of  her  element  us  a  fish  out  of  water.  Any  one 
could  tell  with  half  an  eye  she'd  been  a  lady,  in  spite  of 
her  shabby  duds  and  starved,  haggard  face.      She  was 


THE    BARONKT'S    HRir>E. 


1C9 


lu 


alone.    Not  a  aoul  knew  her,  not  a  soul  cared  for  her,  and 
ialf-way  across  she  fell  sick  and  had  like  to  died." 

Mr.  Parmalee  paused.  My  lady  stood  before  him, 
ashen  white  to  the  lips,  listening  with  wild,  wide  eyes. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"  Well,  my  lady,-"  Mr.  I'arnuilee  resumed,  modestly, 
**  I'm  a  pretty  rough  sort  of  a  fellow,  as  you  may  see,  anu 
I  hain't  never  experienced  religion  or  that,  and  don't  lay 
claim  to  no  sort  of  goodness;  but  for  all  that  I've  s\n  old 
mother  over  to  home,  and  for  her  sake  i  ooukln^t  stand  by 
and  see  a  poor,  sufferin'  feller-critter  of  the  female  jxh-- 
suasion  and  not  lend  a  heliting  hand.  I  nussed  that  there? 
sick  ])arfcy  by  night  iv,\d  by  (lay,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
that  nussin'and  the  little  things  1  bought  her  to  eat,  she'd 
have  been  under  the  A 1  tan  tic  now,  though  I  do  say  it. 
They  used  to  laugh  at  me  on  board,  but  I  stuck  to  her, 
sir,  until  she  got  well." 

My  lady  held  out  her  hand — her  slender  white  hand 
aglitter  with  rich  rings. 

"  You  are  a  better  man  than  1  took  you  for,"  she  said, 
softly.     *'  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 

Mr.  Parmalee  took  the  dainty  hand,  rather  confusedly, 
in  his  tinger-tipa,  held  it  a  seciond,  and  dropped  it. 

"  It  was  one  night,  when  she  thought  herself  dying, 
that  she  told  me  her  story — toid  me  everything,  my  lady 
— who  she  had  been,  who  she  was,  and  what  she  was  com- 
ing across  for.  My  lady,  nobody  could  be  sorrier  than  she 
was  then.  I  pitied  her,  by  George,  more  than  1  ever  pitied 
any  one  before  in  my  life.  She  had  been  unhappy  and  re- 
morseful for  a  long  time,  but  she  was  in  despiiir.  It  was 
too  late  for  repentance,  she  thought.  There  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  go  on  to  the  dreadful  end.  Sometimes,  when 
dhe  was  almost  mad,  she — well,  she  took  to  drink,  you 
know^  and  he  wasn't  in  any  way  a  good  or  kind  protector 
to  her — Thorndyke  wasn't." 

My  lady  Hung  up  both  arms  with  a  shrill,  irre])ressiblo 
scream. 

"  Kot  that  name,"  she  cried—"  not  that  accursed  name, 
if  you  would  not  drive  me  mad!" 

"I  bog  your  pardon!"  said  Mr.  Parmnlee;  "  I  won't. 
Well,  she  heard  of  your  father's  death — Jte  told  Iku-,  you 
see — and  that  completed  her  despair.  She  took  to  drink 
worse  and  worse;  she  got  out  of  ail  bounds — sort  of  fran- 


i 'i 


(  ; 


L 

: 


{ 


170  THE   baronet's    BRIDE. 

tm,  jon  so.  Twice  sho  cried  to  kill  horsolf — ooee  by 
poison,^  ;e  by  drowning;  and  both  times  he — you  know 
who  I  mo-^  —caught  her  and  stopped  her.  He  badn^t 
even  mercy  ou  ugh  on  her,  sho  says,  to  let  her  die!" 

*'  For  God's  sake,  don't  tell  me  of  those  horrors!"  my 
lady  cried.  In  a  voice  of  agony.  *'  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
going  mad." 

*' It  is  hard,"  said  the  artist,  compassionately;  "  but  I 
can't  help  it — it's  true,  all  the  same.  Sho  heard  of  your 
marriage  to  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  next.  It  was  the  last 
thing  he  ever  taunted  her  with;  for,  crazed  with  his  jeers 
and  insults,  she  fled  from  him  that  night,  sold  all  she  pos- 
sessed but  the  clothes  on  her  back,  and  took  passage  for 
England." 

"  To  see  me!  "  asked  Harriet,  hoarsely. 

*'  To  see  you,  my  lady,  but  all  unkmwn.  She  had  no 
wish  to  force  herself  upon  you;  she  only  felt  that  she  was 
dying,  and  that  if  she  could  look  on  your  face  once  before 
she  went  out  of  life,  and  see  you  well,  and  beautiful,  and 
beloved,  and  happy,  she  could  lie  down  in  the  dust  at  your 
gates  and  die  content." 

There  was  a  rude  pathos  in  the  speaker's  voice  that 
showed  even  he  was  touched.  My  lady  hid  her  face  once 
more,  and  the  tears  fell  like  rain. 

*'  She  made  me  write  you  a  line  or  two  that  night," 
continued  Mr.  Parmalee — "  that  night  which  she  thought 
her  last — and  she  begged  me  to  find  you  and  give  it  to  you, 
with  her  picture.     I  have  it  yet;  here  they  are,  both." 

Ho  drew  from  his  pocket  the  picture  and  a  note,  and 
gave  them  into  my  lady's  hand. 

**  She  didn't  die,"  ho  resumed;  **  she  got  better,  «md  I 
took  lior  to  London,  loft  her  there,  and  came  down  here. 
Now,  my  hidy,  I  don't  make  no  pretense  of  being  better 
than  I  am;  1  took  this  matter  up  in  the  way  of  specula- 
tion, in  the  view  to  make  money  out  of  it,  and  nothing 
else.  1  said  to  myself:  *  Here's  this  young  lady,  the  bride 
of  a  rich  baronet;  it  ain't  likely  she's  been  and  told  him  all 
this,  and  it  ain't  likely  her  pa  has  died  and  loft  her  ignorant 
of  it.  Now,  what't  to  hinder  my  making  a  few  honest 
pounds  out  of  it,  at  the  samu  time  I  do  a  good  turn  for 
this  poor,  snfferin',  sinful  critter  here?'  That's  wkat  1 
said,  my  lady,  and  that's  what  I  am  here  for.  I'm  »  jjocr 
man,  and  I  live  by  my  wits,  aoA  a  stroke  of  bosinecwlB  n 


by 

low 
[n't 

jmy 

rero 

it  I 

lour 
last 
iexB 
)oa- 
for 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


171 


stroke  of  businesn,  no  matter  how  far  it'a  out  of  tho  ordi- 
nary run.  Your  husband  don't  know  this  here  story;  you 
don't  want  him  to  know  it,  and  you  come  down  hand- 
somely and  ril  keep  your  secret'* 

*'  You  have  rather  spoiled  your  iP"rketablo  commodity, 
then,  Mr.  Parmalee.  It  would  ha  p  i  you  better  not 
to  have  shared  your  secret  with  Sy'ilka      ver." 

**  She's  told  you,  has  she?"  e^i^  th*.  ^.rtist,  rather  sur- 
prised. "  Now  that's  what  I  ce'  .le  "3.  You  don't  think 
she'll  peach  to  Sir  Everard,  do  j'cu. '" 

"  1  think  it  extremely  like!  *hat  she  will.  She  hates 
me,  Mr.  Parmalee,  and  Miss  fc  n'  would  do  a  good  deal 
for  a  person  she  hates.  You  should  have  waited  until  she 
became  Mrs.  Parmalee  before  making  her  the  repository 
of  your  valuable  secrets." 

"  It's  no  good  talking  about  it  now,  however,"  said  Mr. 
Parmalee,  rather  doggedly.  **  I've  told  her,  and  it  can't 
be  helped.  And  now,  my  lady,  I  don't  want  to  be  caught 
here,  and  it's  getting  late,  and  what  are  you  going  to  give 
a  fellow  for  all  his  trouble?" 

"  What  will  hardly  repay  you,  I  fear,"  said  my  lady, 
with  cool  contempt;  "  for  I  have  very  little  of  my  own,  as 
you  doubtless  have  informed  yourself  ere  this?.  What  1 
have  you  have  earned  and  shall  receive.  At  the  most  it 
will  not  exceed  three  hundred  i)0und8.  Of  my  husband's 
money  not  one  farthing  shall  any  one  ever  receive  from 
me  for  keeping  a  secret  of  mine." 

Mr.  Parmalee's  face  fell  visibly.  Three  hundred  pounds 
was  evidently  not  one  fourth  of  what  he  had  expected  to 
receive  for  his  valuable  secret. 

"  I  must  have  more  than  that,"  ho  said,  resolutely. 

Three  hundred  pounds  is  nothing  to  a  lady  like  you. 
have  diamonds  and  jewels  worth  five  times  tho 
t  amount.     I  must  have  more  than  tiireu  hundred  pounds." 

'*  It  is  all  I  have — all  1  can  give  you,  and  to  give  you 
that  I  must  sell  the  trinkets  my  dear  dead  father  gave  me. 
But  it  is  for  his  sake  I  do  it— to  preserve  his  secret.  My 
jewels,  my  diamonds,  my  husband's  gifts  1  will  not  touch, 
nor  one  farthing  of  liis  money  will  you  over  receive.  You 
entirely  mistake  me,  Mr.  Parmalee.  My  secret  I  will 
keep  from  him  while  I  can ;  1  8Wf)re  a  solemn  oatli  by  my 
father's  death-bed  to  do  so.     But  t<    pay  you  with  his 


4( 


i  You 


: 


:    !■ 


172 


THE    baronet's    BRTDT?. 


i 


money — to  bribe  yon  to  docoivo  him  with  liis  gold — T  nerer 
will.     I  would  die  first.*' 

She  stood  before  him  erect,  defiant,  queenly. 

Mr.  Parmalee  frowned  darkly. 

*•  Suppose  1  go  to  liim  then,  my  lady — suppose  I  pour 
this  nice  little  story  into  his  ear — what  then? 

"  Then,*'  she  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  ringing  scorn,  **  you 
will  receive  nothing.  His  servants  will  thrust  you  from 
his  gates.  No,  Mr.  Parmalee,  if  money  be  your  object 
you  will  make  a  better  bargain  with  me  than  with  him. 
What  is  mine  you  shall  have — every  farthing  I  own,  every 
trinket  I  possess — on  condition  that  you  dejiart  and  never 
trouble  me  more.  That  is  all  I  can  do — all  I  will  do. 
Decide  which  you  prefer. " 

"  There  is  no  choice,"  replied  the  American,  sullenly; 
"  half  a  loaf  is  better  than  nothing.  I'll  take  the  three 
hundred  pounds;  but  it's  a  poorer  spec  than  I  took  it  for. 
And  now,  my  lady,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  about  her? 
She  wants  to  see  you." 

'*  See  me!"  An  expression  of  horror,  fear,  disgust 
swept  over  my  lady's  face.  *'  Not  for  ten  thousand 
worlds!" 

*'  Well,  now,  1  call  that  hard,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee.  **  I 
don't  care  what  she's  done  or  what  she's  been,  it's  hard! 
She's  sorry  now,  and  no  one  can  be  more  than  that.  I 
take  an  interest  in  that  unfortunate  party,  my  lady;  and 
if  you  knew  how  she  hankers  after  a  sight  of  you — how 

Eoor  and  ill  and  heart-broken  she  is — how  she  longs  to 
ear  you  say  once,  '  I  forgive  you,'  before  she  dies — well, 
you  wouldn't,  proud  as  vou  are— you  wouldn't  be  so 
hard." 

*•  Stop — stop!"  Lady  Kingsland  exclaimed,  in  a  chok- 
ing voice. 

She  turned  away,  leaning  against  a  tree,  her  hands 
pressed  over  her  heart,  her  face  more  ghastly  than  the  face 
of  a  dead  woman. 

Mr.  Parmalee  watched  her.  He  could  see  the  fierce 
struggle  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

*'  JJon'fc  bo  hard  on  her!"  ho  pleaded.     "  She's  very 
humble  now,  and  fallen  very  low.     She  won't  live  long, 
lud  y^nu'lJ  be  hajipier  on  your  own  death-bed,  my  lady,  for 
orgiviug  her,  poor  soul!'' 


THE    BAUONET's    UUIDE. 


173 


Sho  put  out  hor  hand  blindly  and  took  liis.  Tier  touch 
was  icy  cold,  hor  fuco  ghastly. 

**  I  will  8oe  hor,"  sno  said,  iioarsuly.  *'  May  (I ml  for- 
give hor  and  pity  mo!  Fetch  her  down  hero,  Mr.  I'arma- 
lee,  and  I  will  soo  her." 

*'  Yes,  my  lady;  but  as  I'm  rather  short  of  funds,  per- 
haps— " 

She  drew  out  her  purse  and  poured  its  glittering  con- 
tents into  his  palm. 

*'  It  is  all  I  have  now;  when  you  return  I  will  have  tho 
three  hundred  pounds.  You  must  take  hor  back  to  New 
York.  Sho  and  I  must  never  meet  again — for  my  hus- 
band's sake." 

"  I  understand,  my  lady,"  tho  man  said,  moved  by  tho 
agony  of  hor  voice.  "  I'll  do  what  1  can.  I'll  take  her 
back,  and  I'll  trouble  you  no  more." 

His  last  words  were  drowned  in  the  gallop  of  Sir  Gala- 
had up  the  avenue. 

*' It  is  my  husband!"  my  lady  exclaimed.  "1  must 
leave  you.     When  will  you—ana  sho — return?" 

*'  In  t';vo  days  wo  will  be  here.  I'll  give  out  she's  a  sis- 
ter of  mine  at  the  inn — no  one  knows  her  here — and  I'll 

Until  then,  my 


send  you  word  and  arrange  a 
lady,  1  wish  you  good-bye. 


meeting. 


Mr.  I'armaleo  drew  down  his  hat  and  strode  uncere- 
moniously away.  Weak,  trembling,  my  lady  leaned  for  a 
few  moments  against  a  tree,  trying  to  recover  herself, 
then  turned  slowly  and  walked  back  to  the  house  to  meet 
her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MISS   SILVER  IJllEAKS  THE   NEWS. 

The  Grange,  tho  jointure  house  of  the  Dowager  Lady 
Kingsland,  stood,  like  all  such  places,  isolated  and  alone, 
at  tho  furthest  extremity  of  tho  village.  It  was  a  dreary 
old  building  enough,  weather-beaten  and  brown,  \  th 
primly  laid-out  grounds,  and  row  upon  row  of  stiff  poplars 
waving  in  tho  wintery  wind.  A  lonely,  forlorn  old  i)Iaco — 
a  vivid  contrast  to  tho  beauty  and  brightness  of  Kingsland 
Court;  and  from  the  first  day  of  hur«ntrance,  LadyKings- 
la?id,  senior,  hated  her  daughter-in-law  with  double  hatred 
and  rancor. 


^'1 
I 

I 


I 


■    I 

1 


i  I 


il 


174 


THE    BAUONKT'S    BBIDE. 


"  For  the  pnuper  half- pay  ofTicor's  bold-faced  daiiuhtor 
wo  laiKst  dm;^'  out  our  livuB  in  this  liorriblo  plaoo!'  ghe 
burst  out,  bitterly.  "  Whilo  Harriot  llunstlen  roigns  eu 
prinrcssc  amid  the  splondora  of  our  anccBtral  home,  wo 
ninst  vcgotato  in  this  uuubling,  dingy  old  barn.  I'll  novor 
forgive  your  brother,  Mildred— I'll  never  forgive  him  as 
Jong  as  I  live  for  marrying  that  (feature!'* 

*' Dear  mamma,"  the  gentle  voice  of  Milly  pleadeii, 
**  you  must  not  blamo  Kvorard.  He  loves  lior,  and  she  is 
as  beautiful  as  an  angol.  It  would  have  been  all  the  same 
if  he  had  married  Lady  Louise,  you  know.  We  would  still 
have  had  to  quit  Kingsland  Court." 

*' Kin^sland  Court  would  have  had  an  earl's  daughter 
for  its  mistress  in  that  case.  I  could  have  loft  it  without 
repining,  then.  But  to  think  that  this  odious,  fox-hunt- 
ing, steeple-chaso-riding,  baggago-cart-following  JJflc  du 
rotjiment  should  rule  there,  whdc  we —  Oh,  it  sets  mo 
wild  only  to  think  of  it!*' 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  then,  mamma,"  coaxed  Mildred. 
*'  We  will  make  this  wilderness  *  blossom  as  the  rose  '  next 
summer.  As  for  Harrie,  you  don't  know  her  yet — you 
will  like  her  bettor  when  you  do!" 

*'  I  shall  never  like  her!"  Lady  Kingsland  replied,  with 
rancorous  bitterness.  "  I  don't  want  to  like  her!  She  is 
a  proud,  imperious  upstart,  and  1  sincerely  hope  she  may 
make  Everard  see  his  headstrong  folly  in  throwing  himself 
away  before  the  honey-moon  is  ended." 

It  was  quite  useless  for  Mildred  to  try  to  combat  her 
mother's  tierce  resentment.  J)ay  after  day  she  wandered 
through  the  desolate,  draughty  rooms,  bewailing  her  hard 
lot,  regretting  the  lost  glories  of  Kingsland,  and  nursing 
her  resentment  toward  her  odious  daughter-in-law;  and 
when  the  bridal  pair  returned,  and  Milly  timidly  suggested 
the  propriety  of  calling,  my  lady  flatly  refused. 

"I  never  will!"  she  said,  spitefully.  **  I'll  never  call 
on  Captain  Hunsden's  daughter,  let  people  say  what  they 
please.  I  never  countenanced  the  match  before  he  made 
it.  I  shall  not  countenance  it  now  when  she  has  usurped 
my  place.  She  should  never  have  been  received  in  society 
— a  person  whose  mother  was  no  better  than  she  ought 
to  be. " 

*'  But,  mamma — " 
Hold  your  tonguO|  Milly  I    You  always  were  a  llttio 


(( 


THE    BARONKT'S    imiDE. 


175 


m 
wo 
for 

U8 


iiu 


Aioll  1  tell  you  I  will  not  cull  on  my  son's  wife,  and  no 
inoro  sliall  you.  Let  her  oomo  hero.  It  will  liiimblo  iier 
prido  a  little,  perha])s,  and  his,  too.     They  both  nteil  it," 

My  lady  adherotl  to  her  resolution  with  iron  force,  and 
received  ncr  Hon,  when  the  day  after  his  roturn  ho  rode 
over,  with  freezing  formality.  Ihit  with  all  that,  slie  was 
none  the  Icea  deo])Iy  disploasod  when  ho  called  ami  canio  to 
dinner  and  left  his  brido  at  homo. 

*•  My  humble  house  is  not  worthy  my  lady's  imiiorial 
presence,  1  dare  say,*'  she  romarkod,  with  IJaHhiiij^-  eyes. 
**  After  the  magnificenco  of  barraok  life  and  tho  splondor 
of  llunsdon  Hall,  1  scarcely  wondor  eho  (;an  not  hloo])  to 
your  mother's  jointure  house.  A  lady  in  her  position  must 
draw  the  lino  somewhere.  '* 

"  You  are  unjust,  mother,"  her  son  said,  striving  to 
speak  calmly.  "  You  always  were  unjust  to  Harriot.  If 
you  will  2)ermit  us,  we  will  both  do  ourselves  tho  pleasure 
of  dining  with  you  to-morrow." 

My  lady  bowed  ironically. 

*'  It  shall  be  precisely  as  the  Prince  and  Princess  of 
Kingsland  please.  My  poor  board  will  bo  only  too  much 
honored. " 

Sir  Everard's  face  Hushed  angrily,  but  ho  forebore  to  re- 
tort. 

**  It  is  natural,  I  sup])ose,"  he  thought,  riding  home- 
ward. **  The  contrast  between  Kingsland  Court  and  Tho 
Grange  is  striking.  She  is  jealous  and  angry  and  hurt — 
poor  motherl  Harrie  must  come  with  mo  to-morrow,  and 
try  to  please  her." 

But  when  to-morrow  came  Harrio  had  a  headache,  and 
the  baronet  was  obliged  to  go  alone. 

There  was  an   ominous  light  in  his  K.-olhcr^j  eyes,  a 
warning  compression  of  tho  mouth,  and  «  look  of  trot«!)led 
I  mquiry  in  Mildred's  face  that  told  hm  a  revolaticii  vas 
coining. 

His  mother's  powerful  eyes  transfixed  him  the  iustunt  ho 
i^ppeared. 

I  thought  your  wife  was  coming?"  was  her  lirst  re- 
mark. 

*'  Harriet  had  a  shocking  bad  headaclie.  She  lias  been 
ill  fkll  day,"  he  replied,  hastily.  "  It  was  rjuito  impossiblu 
lor  her  to  leave  her  room.     She  regrets — " 

That  will  do,  ^verai-dl"    His  mother  rose  a3  she 


';  1 


ti 


i 


l' 


til 


I 


' 


' 


176 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


spoke,  with  a  short  laugh.  "  1  understantl  it  all.  Don't 
troiiblo  yourself  to  explain.  Let  us  go  to  the  dining-rooii? 
— (liruior  waits." 

"  iUit,  my  dear  mother,  it  is  really  as  I  say.  Harrie  is 
III." 

Slio  looked  at  him  with  a  glance  of  infinite  scorn  and 
con  1 0111  pt. 

"  711?  Yes,  ill  of  a  guilty  conscience,  perhaps!  Such  a 
moUior — such  a  daughtor!  I  always  knew  how  this  mad 
/y/r.s7////Yr//r6' would  end.  1  don't  know  that  I  am  surprisetl. 
1  don't  know  that  I  regret  it.  I  am  only  sorry  that  my 
son's  wife  should  be  the  first  to  disgrace  the  name  of 
Kingshind!" 

Sir  Everard  started  as  ii  an  adder  had  stung  him,  turn- 
ing dark  red. 

"  Disgrace?  Take  care,  mother!  That  is  an  ugly 
word." 

"It  is.  But,  however  uglj,  it  is  always  best  to  call 
these  things  by  their  right  names." 

"  These  things!  What  under  heaven  doj'ou  you  moan?" 
"  Do  you  really  need  to  ask?"  she  said,  with  cold  con- 
tempt. "  Are  you  indrjd  so  blind  and  besotted  where 
this  woman  is  concerned?  Wliy,  my  son's  wife  is  the  talk 
of  the  town,  and  my  son  sits  hero  and  asflis  mo  what  1 
moan?" 

The  red  finsh  of  anger  faded  from  the  young  husband's 
face,  and  gave  place  to  the  ghastly  hue  of  ashes. 

"Mi.mni;'!  mamma!"  Mildred  said,  imploringly. 
**  Pray  don't!  You  are  cruel!  Don't  say  such  dreadful 
things!" 

Her  brother  turned  to  her,  hi.^  face  white,  bis  lips  trem- 
bling with  suppressed  rage  and  wounded  feeling. 

"  Your  mother  is  cruel,  and  unjust,  and  unnatural!" 
he  said,  in  a  hard,  hoarse  voice.  *'  Do  you  tell  me  what 
slie  means,  Mildred." 

'*  Don't  ask  me,  Everard!"  Mildred  said,  in  distress. 
"  We  have  heard  cruel,  wicked  stories — false,  I  know — 
about  llarrie  and — and  a  stranger — an  American  gentle- 
man— who  is  stopping  at  the  Dlue  Bell  Inn." 

"  Yes,  Everard,"  his  mother  said,  jiity  for  liim,  hatred 
of  his  wife,  strangely  mingled  in  look  and  tone,  "  your 
bride  of  a  month  is  the  talk  of  tlio  place.     The  names  of 


THE    UAKONET'S    BlilDE. 


177 


Laily  Kingslaiul  and  tliis  unknown  mun  go  wliisperud  to- 
getlier  from  ]i]»  to  lip." 

"  Wh;it  ilo  they  say?" 

Ho  aske»l  the  r^uestion  in  a  hard,  nnnatural  voice,  the 
deathly  pallor  of  his  face  unchanging. 

*'  Notliing!"  Mildred  exclaimed,  indignantly — **  noth- 
ing but  their  own  base  suspicions!  She  nearly  fainted  at 
tiriic  sight  of  him.  He  showred  her  a  picture,  aiid  she  ran 
out  of  the  room  and  fell  into  hysterics.  Since  then  he  has 
written  to  her,  and  mysterious  personages — females  in  dis- 
g!iise — visit  him  at  the  Blue  liell.  That  is  what  they  whis|)er, 
Evurard:  nothing  more." 

"  Nothing  more!**  echoed  her  mother.  **  Qi:ite  enough, 
1  think.  What  would  you  have.  Miss  Kingsland?  Evor- 
ard,  who  is  this  mauj''* 

He  looked  at  her,  with  a  strident  laugh. 

*'  You  appear  to  know  more  than  I  do,  mother.  He  is 
an  American — a  traveling  photograph  artist — and  my  wife 
never  laid  eyes  on  him  until  she  saw  him,  the  day  after  our 
arrival,  in  the  librar}'.  As  to  the  fainting:  and  the  hyster- 
ics, I  chanced  to  be  in  the  library  all  through  that  tirst  in- 
terview, and  I  saw  neither  one  nor  the  other.  I  am  sorry 
to  spoil  the  i>retty  romance  in  which  you  take  such  evi- 
dent delight,  my  gootl,  kind,  charitable  mother;  but  truth 
obliges  me  to  tell  you  it  is  a  fabrication  from  beginning  to 
end.  And  now,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  tlio 
name  of  the  originator  of  this  report,  you  will  confer  upon 
mo  the  liist  favor  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you.  My  wife's  honor 
is  mine;  and  neither  she  nor  1  will  ever  set  foot  in  a  house 
whei-e  such  stories  are  credited — not  only  credited,  but  ex- 
ulted in.  Tell  me  the  name  of  your  tale-maker.  Lady 
Kingsland,  and  jK^rmit  me  to  wish  you  goml-evening. " 

"  Evenird!'*  his  sister  cried,  in  agony. 

lint  he  cut  Iier  short  with  an  inii)atient  wave  of  his  hand. 

*'  Hush,  Mi!dn>i;  let  my  mother  s{)eak. " 

"1  have  nothing  to  say."  She  stood  haughiil  before 
him,  and  they  looktx]  eacli  other  full  in  the  face,  mother 
anil  son.  *'  My  tale-maker  is  the  whole  town.  You  can 
not  punish  them  all.  Sir  Everard.  There  is  truth  in  this 
story,  or  it  never  would  have  originated;  and  he  has  w  it- 
ten  to  her — that  is  beyond  a  doubt.  He  has  told  it  him- 
self, and  shown  her  reply.'* 

**  It  is  as  false  as  hell!"    His  eyes  blazed  like  coals  of 


Un 


n 


i  \ 


\t'i 


m 

1*1  ? 


; 


U 


i! 


i 

I 


!   i 


!    » 


178 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


fire>  "  My  wife  is  ae  pure  as  the  angels,  and  any  one  who 
(hvres  doubt  that  parity,  even  though  it  be  the  mother  who 
boro  me,  ig  my  enemy  to  the  death!" 

lie  dashed  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  house,  mounted 
Sir  Gahdiad,  and  rode  away  as  if  Satan  and  his  hosts  were 
after  him. 

"  Mamma!  mamma!"  Mildi-ed  cried,  in  unutterable  re- 
proach, '*  what  have  you  done?" 

*"l'old  him  the  truth,  child."    Her  face  was  deathly 

Eale,  her  hands  and  lips  trembling  convulsively.     "  It  ia 
etter  he  should  know  it,  although  that  kuowleilgo  parts 
us  forever.** 

Like  a  man  gone  mad  the  young  baronet  galloped  homo. 
The  sickly  glimmer  of  the  fitful  moon  shone  on  a  face  that 
would  never  be  more  ghastly  in  his  cotiin — on  strained  eyes 
and  com})ressed  lips.  It  seemed  to  him  but  an  instant 
from  the  time  he  quitted  The  (J  range  until  he  dashed  up 
the  avenue  at  Kiiigsland,  leaped  ot!  his  foaming  bay,  and 
strode  into  the  house.  Straight  to  his  wife's  room  he 
went,  tierce,  invincible  determination  in  every  line  of  his 
rigid  face. 

**  She  shall  tell  mo  ail — she  shall,  by  Heaven!"  he  cried, 
between  hit-  clinched  teeth. 

lie  entered  her  dressing-room — she  was  not  there;  her 
boudoir — she  was  not  there;  her  bedroom — it  too  was 
om})ty.  He  seized  the  bell  and  nearly  tore  it  down. 
Oluuilino,  the  maid,  looked  in  with  a  startled  face. 

*'  Whore  is  your  mistress?" 

The  girl  gazed  round  with  a  bewildered  air. 

'*  is  my  lady  not  here,  sir?  She  sent  me  away  over  an 
hour  ago.  She  was  lying  down  in  her  dressing-room;  she 
said  she  was  ill. " 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment — it  was  evident  she  was 
telling  the  simple  truth. 

"  Send  Miss  Silver  hero." 

*'  I  am  not  sure  that  Miss  Silver  is  in  the  house.  Sir 
Kverard.  I  saw  her  go  out  with  Edwards  some  time  ago 
but  1  will  go  and  see." 

Claudine  departed.  Five  minutes  passed — ton;  he  stood 
rigid  as  stone.  ^JMien  came  steps — hurried,  agitated — the 
footsteps  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

He  strode  out  and  confronted  them — Edwards,  his  valet, 


THE    baronet's    I5RIDH. 


179 


re- 


am! iSybilla  Silver.     Both  were  dressed  as  from  a  reoent 
walk;  both  wore  strangely  pale  and  agitated  faces. 

Etlwaitls  barely  repressed  a  cry  at  sight  of  his  mastor, 
with  that  fixed,  awful  face. 

"  What  is  it?"  Sir  Everard  asked. 

A  dull  presentiment  of  some  horrible  calamity  had  taken 
possession  of  him,  body  and  soul. 

The  valet  looked  at  tSybillu  in  blank  terror.     Miss  Silver 
covered  her  face  with  both  hands  and  turned  away. 

"  What  is  it?"  the  baronet  repeated,  in  a  dull,  thick 
voice.     *'  AVhere  is  my  wife?" 

*'  Sir  Everard,  I — I  don't  know  how- 
in  the  house. " 

'*  Where  is  she?" 

**  She  is- 

**  Where?" 

"In  the  Beech  Walk." 


-she — she  is  not 


-in  the  grounds.*' 


ti 


With  whom! 


He  knew  befoi*e  he  put  the  question.  He  had  left  her 
ill — unable  to  quit  her  chamber,  as  she  siiid — and  this  was 
how  he  found  tier,  oomiug  home  sooner  thau  was  antici- 
pated. 

*'  With  whom?" 

"With  Mr.  Parmaloe." 

There  was  a  dead  pause.  Sybilla  clasped  Ler  hands  and 
looked  imploringly  up  in  his  face. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  us,  Sir  Everard;  we  could  not 
help  seeing  them.  I  lost  a  locket,  and  Edwards  came  to 
help  me  look  for  it.  It  was  by  the  merest  chance  we  o«mo 
upon  them  in  the  Beech  Walk." 

"  I  am  not  angry,"  still  in  that  dull,  thick  voioe. 
*'  Bid  they  see  you?" 

"No,  Sir  Everai-d." 

"  Did  you  hear  what  they  said?" 

"No,  Sir  Everard;  we  would  not  have  listened.  They 
were  talking;  my  lady  seemed  dreadfully  agitated,  apiKjal- 
ing  to  him,  as  it  api)eared,  while  ho  was  cool  and  indiiler- 
ent.  Just  before  we  came  away  we  saw  her  give  him  all 
the  money  in  her  purse.  Ah!  here  she  is  now!  For  pity's 
sftke,  do  not  betray  us,  Sir  Everard!" 

She  llitted  away  like  a  swift,  noii^uloss  ghost,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  valet.  And  tin  instant  later  Lady  Kingsland, 
wild  and  pale,  and  shroutJed  iu  a  long  mautie.  turned  to 


V  1 


i) . 


180 


THE    JJAKONKT'8    BKIDE. 


enter  herdreasing-room,  auil  found  hericlf  face  to  face  with 
her  wronged  husband. 


m    'I 


CnAPTEU  XXV. 

THE   BREAKING   OF  THE   KTOKM. 

She  looked  at  him  and  recoiled  with  a  cry  of  dismay. 
lie  stooil  before  her  so  ghastly,  so  awful,  that  with  a  blind, 
unthinking  motion  of  intense  terror  she  2)ut  out  both 
hands  as  if  to  keep  him  off. 

"You  have  reason  to  fear  me!"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse, 
unnatural  voice.  "  Wives  have  been  murdered  for  less 
than  this!'' 

Sybilla  and  Edwards  heard  the  ominous  words,  and 
looketl  blankly  in  each  other's  faces.  I'hoy  liuard  no  more. 
The  baronet  caught  his  wife's  wrist  in  a  grasp  of  iron, 
drew  her  into  the  dressing-room,  and  closed  tlie  door,  lie 
stood  with  his  back  to  it,  gazing  at  her,  his  blue  eyes  filled 
with  lurid  rage. 

"  Where  have  you  been?" 

lie  asked  the  question  in  a  voice  more  terrible  from  its 
menacing  calm  than  any  wild  outburst  of  fury. 

llis  wife's  eyes  met  his,  full  and  clear  and  i)ioud.  She 
was  deathly  ])a]e;  but  she  came  of  a  haughty  and  fearless 
race,  and  in  this  hour  of  her  extremity  she  did  not  blench. 

"  in  the  Beech  Walk,"  she  answered,  i)romi)tly. 

*'  With  whom!'"' 

"With  Mr.  rarmaloo." 

ller  glance  never  fell.  She  looked  at  him  proudly,  un- 
quailingly,  full  in  the  face.  The  look  in  hi.)  lluming  eyes, 
the  tone  of  his  ominous  voice,  wore  bitterly  insulting,  and 
with  insult  her  imi)erious  s])irit  rose. 

"  And  you  dare  stand  before  me — you  dare  look  mo  in 
the  face,"  he  said,  between  his  clinched  teeth,  "  and  tell 
mo  this?" 

"  I  dare!"  she  said,  proudly.  "  Vou  hiive  yet  to  learn 
what  J  dare  do.  Sir  Everard  Kingsljiudl" 

Sb'  drew  herself  up  in  her  bi;;iiily  and  her  p'-ide,  v,vv.v,t 
and  defiant.  Her  long  liuir  fell  louse  and  uii'jound,  licr 
.fai;c  was  colorless  as  jiuirble;  but  her  dark  eyes  were  llasli- 
jng  with  anger  and  woundnl  pridi,!,  jiiid  at  licr  brightest 
she  had  never  looked  mon^  beautirul  than  sh«!  did  now. 
In  spitu  of  himself  he  soileuod  a  little  at  the  sight. 


, 


with 


THE    BAKONET'S    bride. 


181 


arse, 
lusu 


**  So  beautiful  and  so  lost!"  ho  said,  bitterly.  **  So  ut- 
terly deceitful  and  depraved!  Surely  what  they  tell  of  her 
mother  must  be  true.  The  taint  of  dishonor  is  in  the 
blood!" 

The  change  was  instantaneous.  The  pallor  of  her  face 
turned  to  a  burning  red.  She  clasped  her  hands  with  a 
sudden  spasm  over  her  heart. 

"  My  mother!"  she  gasped.  "  What  do  you  say  of 
her?" 

'*  What  they  say  of  you — that  she  was  a  false  and  wicked 
wife.     Deny  it  if  you  can. " 

Again  that  change.  The  crimson  flush  died  out,  and 
left  her  white,  and  rigid,  and  cold,  with  eyes  that  literally 
blazed. 

'*  No,"  she  said,  with  an  imperial  gesture  of  scorn,  "  1 
deny  nothing.  If  my  IiuhI  tind  can  believe  such  a  vile 
slander  of  his  wife  of  a  month,  let  it  be.  1  scorn  to  deny 
what  he  credits  so  easily." 

Sir  Everard  broke  into  a  bitter  laugh. 

*'  I  am  afraid  it  would  tax  oven  your  invention,  my  lady, 
to  deny  these  vt3ry  plain  facts.  I  leave  you  in  your  room, 
too  ill  to  leave  it,  too  ill  by  far  to  ride  with  me  to  my 
mother's,  but  not  too  ill  to  get  up  and  meet  your  lo\  ta- — 
shall  I  say  it,  madanie? — clandestinely  in  the  lieoch  ^Vuifc 
as  soon  as  1  am  gone!  You  should  bo  a  little  moie  care- 
ful, madanui,  and  make  sure  bcf«  you  hold  tho.'o  coiili- 
dential  icfc-a-fr/ci^,  that  the  servji  .  are  not  listening  ind 
looking  on.  Lady  Kingshwid  ai  Mr.  Parnuilee  are  tlie 
talk  of  the  county  already.  To  Tight's  meeting  will  be  a 
last  honiic  bouche  added  to  the  s)     y  dish  of  scandal." 

*'  Have  you  done?"  she  said.  iter  than  ashes.  '*  Have 
you  any  more  insults  to  olTer? 

*'  Insults!"  the  baronet  rei»ejitcd,  hoarse  with  passloti. 
"  You  do  well,  madame,  to  talk  of  insults — lost,  fallen 
creature  that  you  are!  You  liaA  ti  dishonored  an  honorable 
name;  betrayed  a  husband  who  loved  and  trusted  you  with 
all  his  heart;  blighted  and  ruined  his  life;  covered  him 
with  disgrace!  And  you  sUuul  there  and  talk  of  insult!  I 
have  loved  you  as  man  never  lo-  1  wonuui  before,  but  (Joti 
help  you,  Harriet  Kingsland,  ii  i  had  a  jMstol  now!" 

She  fell  down  on  her  knee.s  before  him,  and  held  u])  her 
clasped  hands. 

"  Kill  me!"  sho  cried.     "  I  am  licrc  at  your  feet-  have 


I 


i'l  1 


r  1 


'If 


I  ■  .; 


iH! 


'f 


If 


I ' 


382 


THE    BAROKET'a    BRIDE. 


Dioroy  and  stab  nic  to  tho  heart,  l>ut  do  not  drive  me  mad 
witli  your  Jiorriblo  roproaohoa!  May  (Jod  forgive  mo  if  I 
liiivo  brought  dishonor  ii})on  yon,  for  1  never  meant  it! 
Never — never — so  help  nio  Heaven!" 

"  liiBC,  madanio!"  J  lis  voiee  hhook  with  his  inward 
agony.  "  Kneel  to  Him  who  will  judge  you  for  your  baso- 
nosa;  it  is  too  late  to  kneel  to  me!  Oh,  great  CJod!" — ho 
turneil  away  and  covered  his  fac«»  with  his  Ijands — "  to 
think  how  I  liave  loved  this  woman,  and  how  bitterly  sho 
has  deceived  me!'* 

The  unutterable  agony  of  his  tone — that  wild,  fierce  cry 
of  anguish — to  her  dying  day  ITarriet  Kingsland  might 
never  forget  it.  Jlia  words  burst  from  him,  every  one  bit- 
ter, as  if  tinged  with  his  Jieart's  blood. 

"  I  loved  her  and  T  trusted  her!  I  would  have  died 
to  saye  lier  one  hour  of  pain,  and  this  is  my  reward!  Dis- 
honored— disgraced — my  life  blighted — my  liearfc  broken 
— dticoived  from  Ih'st  to  last!" 

"  No,  no,  no!"  sho  shrieked  aloud,  and  ehmg  to  his 
knees.  "  I  swear  it  to  you,  Everard!  I  am  guiltless!  By 
all  my  liopos  of  heaven.,  I  am  your  true,  your  faithful,  your 
loving  wife!" 

ile  turned  and  looked  up  at  i  or  in  white  amaze. 
Truth,  that  no  living  being  could  doubt,  was  stamped  in 
agony  ()n  that  upturned,  beautiful  face.  lie  looked  at  hor 
in  mute  anguish  words  can  never  paint,  for  he  loved  her — 
ho  loved  her  with  a  su})reme  love. 

"Hear  mo,  Everard !**  sho  cried — "my  own  beloved 
husband!  I  met  this  man  to-night  because  he  holds  a  se- 
cret I  am  sworn  to  keep,  and  that  places  me  in  his  power. 
But,  by  all  that  is  high  and  holy,  I  have  told  you  the  aim- 
ido  truth  about  him!  I  never  saw  him  in  all  my  life  until 
1  saw  him  that  day  in  tho  library.  I  have  never  set 
\  eyes  on  him  since,  except  for  an  hour  to-night.  Oh,  be- 
lieve me,  Everard,  or  I  shall  die  hero  at  your  feet!'* 

"  And  you  never  wrote  to  him?"  he  asked. 

"  Never — never!" 

"  Nor  ho  to  you?" 

"  Once— the  scrawl  you  saw  Syljdla  Silver  fetch  me.  I 
never  wrote — I  never  sent  him  even  a  message." 

*'  No?"  His  powerful  eyes  transfixed  her.  '*  How, 
then,  came  you  two  to  moot  to-night?" 

**  Ho  wished  to  see  me — to  extort  money  from  me  for 


THE    IJAUONKTS    UKIDK. 


183 


tbo  koopiiig;  of  this  Hccrot — ami  liu  sent  word  by  Hjfbillu 
SiiVMi'.  My  au.ssv'cr  was,  '  I  will  b(!  in  Llie  ikjoiib  Walk  at 
oiiflit  to-ni^bt.  If  bo  wiubud  to  seu  nic  let  bini  come  to 
mu  thoro.'  " 

"  'i'bon  you  own  to  bavo  doliberatoly  doceivod  me?  Tbo 
proterulud  beadacbe  was — a  lie?" 

"No;  it  was  true.*'  JSbo  j)ut  boi  band  distractedly  to 
ber  tbrobbing  forebead.  "  Itacbes  still,  until  1  am  almost 
blind  witb  tbe  pain.  Ob,  Evorard^  be  merciful!  Have  a  lit- 
tle j)ity  for  me,  for  I  love  you,  and  I  am  tbe  most  wretcbed 
creature  alive  I*' 

Ho  drew  back  from  ber  outstretcbed  armswitb  a  gesture 
of  liorce  repulsion. 

'*  You  sbowyour  love  in  a  singular  way,  my  Lady  Kings- 
land.  It  is  not  by  keeping  guilty  secrets  from  your  bus- 
band — by  meeting  otber  men  by  nigbt  and  by  stealtb  in  tbo 
grounds — that  you  are  to  cc  \ce  me  of  your  love.  Tell 
mo  wbat  tbis  mystery  means.  J  command  you,  by  your 
wifely  obedience,  tell  me  tbis  secret  at  onoe!*' 

"  r  can  not!" 

"  You  mean  you  will  not. " 

"I  can  not." 

Ilia  blue  eyes  gleamed,  but  be  restrained  bimself. 

*'  It  is  a  secret  of  guilt  and  of  sbame?  Tell  me  tbe 
trutb?'' 

"  It  is;  but  tbe  guilt  is  not  mine.  Tbe  sbame — tbe  bit- 
ter sbame — and  tbe  burning  expiation,  (rod  help  me,  are!" 

"  Anil  you  refuse  to  tell  me?" 

"  Everard,  I  bave  sworn!"  sbe  cried  out,  wildly. 
"  Woulil  you  bave  mo  break  a  deatb-bed  oatb?" 

"  1  would  bave  ycu  break  ten  tbousund  sucb  oatbs,"  be 
exclaimed,  passionately,  "  wben  tboy  stand  between  you 
and  your  busbaud!  llarriet  llunsden,  your  dead  fatber 
was  a  villain!" 

ISbe  sprung  to  ber  feet — sbe  btul  been  kneeling  all  tbis 
time — and  confronted  bim  like  a  Saxon  pytboness.  lier 
great  gray  eyes  actually  llasbed  lire. 

"  (Jo!''  sbe  cried.  "  Jjeave  me  this  instant!  Wore  you 
ten  times  my  busbaiid,  you  should  never  insult  the  mem- 
ory of  tbe  best,  tbe  noblest,  tbo  most  devoted  of  fathers! 
I  will  never  forgive  you  the  words  you  bave  spokau  until 
my  dying  day!" 

'*  You  forgive!"  Uo  r«turted,  witb  sueeriug  scorn,  »tuug 


■r 


* 


•   I 


m 


t\ 


I 


I! 


184 


THE    IJAliONKTS    IIKIDE. 


out  of  all  gonorosity.  "  Forgiveness  is  no  word  for  such 
li]>s  us  yours,  Lady  Kingslamll  Keep  your  guilty  seorot, 
or  your  fatiior's  or  your  mother's,  whosoever  it  may  be; 
but  not  as  my  wife!  ^'o,  miidame!  when  the  world  begins 
to  point  the  Hngor  of  scorn,  through  her  own  evil-doing,  at 
the  woman  I  have  married,  then  from  that  hour  she  is  no 
longer  my  wife.  The  woman  who  meets  by  night,  ami  by 
stealth,  the  sharer  of  her  hidden  secrets,  is  no  longer 
worthy  to  bear  an  honorable  name.  Tlie  law  of  divorce 
shall  free  you  and  your  secrets  together;  but  until  Liiat 
freedom  comes,  I  command  you — do  you  hear,  mistress? — 
1  command  you  to  meet  this  man  no  more!  On  your  })eril 
you  write  to  him,  or  speaic  to  him,  or  meet  him  again.  If 
you  do,  by  the  living  Jjord,  1  will  murder  you  botTi!" 

He  dashed  out  of  the  room  lilie  a  num  gone  mad,  leav- 
ing her  standing  petrified  in  the  middle  of  the  iloor. 

One  instant  she  stood,  tlio  room  lieaving,  the  walls  rock- 
ing around  her;  then,  with  a  low,  moaning  <'ry,  siio  tot- 
tered blindly  forward  and  fell  like  a  stone  to  the  iloor. 

The  storm  burst  at  midnight.  A  gale  surged  through 
the  trees  with  a  noise  like  thunder;  the  rain  fell  in  tor- 
rents. And  while  rain  and  wind  beat  tempestuously  over 
the  earth  and  the  roaring  sea,  the  husband  paced  up  and 
down  the  library,  with  clinched  teeth  and  hicked  hands 
and  death-like  face — for  the  time  utterly  mad — and  the 
wife  lay  alone  in  her  luxur'HTit  room,  deaf  and  blind  to 
the  tempest,  in  a  deep  swoon. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"the   PEItSON   IN   LONDON." 


The  February  day  was  closing  in  London  in  a  thick, 
clammy,  yellow  fog.  No  keen  frost,  no  sparkling  stars 
brightened  the  chill  spring  twilight;  the  sky,  where  it 
could  be  seen,  was  of  a  uniform  leaden  tint,  the  damp 
mist  wet  you  to  the  bone,  and  a  long,  lamentable  blast 
whistled  around  the  corners  and  jjierced  chillingly  through 
the  thickest  wraps — a  bleak  and  ghostly  gloaming — and 
passengers  strode  through  the  greasy  black  muil  with  surly 
faces  and  ittoned-up  great-coats  and  the  inevitable  Lon- 
don umb      fu 

At  the        dow  of  a  dull  and  dirty  little  lodging  u  wom- 


THE    BARONKT'S    IMUOE. 


185 


an  sat,  in  tliis  durk  j^Iouniing,  f,'ft>ing  out  at  the  jiat^scra- 
by.  It  was  a  stulTy,  naisty  littlo  buck  street,  and  tboro 
wore  vory  fow  i)aasor8-by  this  bluc^k,  bad  February  even- 
ing. The  liouso  hud  a  perpetual  odor  of  onions  and  cab- 
bage and  dinner,  as  it  is  ni  the  nature  of  sncli  houses  to 
luive,  and  the  room,  "  first  Jloor  front,'*  was  in  the  hist 
stage  of  lodging-house  shabbinjss  and  discomfort. 

The  woman  was  quite  alonj — a  still,  dark  ligure  sitting 
motionless  by  the  grimy  window.  She  might  have  betiu 
carved  in  stone,  so  still  she  sat — so  still  she  had  sat  for 
more  than  two  hours.  Her  worn  hand  lay  idly  in  her  laj), 
lier  dark  eyes  looked  straight  before  her  with  a  lixed,  dull 
despair  dreadful  to  see. 

iter  dress  was  black,  of  the  i)0orest  sort,  frayiid  and 
worn,  and  she  shivered  under  a  threadbare  shawl  drawn 
close  arountl  her  shoulders.  Yet,  in  spite  of  poverty  aiid 
sickness,  and  despair  and  middle  age,  the  wonuvn  was 
beautiful  still,  with  a  dark  and  haggard  and  wild  sort  of 
beauty  tlat  would  have  haunted  one  to  one's  dying  day. 

In  her  youth,  and  her  first  freshness  and  innocence,  she 
must  have  been  lovely  as  a  dream;  but  that  loveliness  was 
all  gone  now — fierce  sin  and  burning  shame  and  bitter  deg- 
radation were  all  Rtj»mi)ed  indelibly  on  that  dark,  desjmir- 
ing  face. 

The  listless  hinds  lay  itill,  the  great,  glittering  dark 
eyes  stared  blankly  at  the  dingy  houses  opposite,  at  the 
straggling  jiedestrians,  at  the  thickening  gloom.  '^Fhe 
short  February  day  was  almost  night  now,  the  street-lamps 
ilared  yellow  and  dull  athwart  the  clammy  fog. 

"  Another  day,"  the  woman  murmured,  slowly — "  an- 
other endless  day  of  sick  despair  gone.  Alone  and  dying 
— the  most  miserable  creature  on  the  wide  earth.  Oh, 
great  God,  who  didst  forgive  Magdalene,  have  a  little  i)ity 


on  me 


!'» 


A  spasm  of  fierce  anguish  crossed  her  face  for  an  instant, 
fading  away,  and  leaving  the  hopeless  despair  more  hope- 
less than  before. 

"  I  am  mad,  worse  than  mad,  to  hojjc  as  I  do.  She  will 
never  look  upon  my  guilty  face — she  so  puro,  so  stainless, 
so  sweet — how  dare  1  ask  it?  Oh,  what  happy  women 
there  are  in  the  world  I  Wives  who  love  and  are  beloved, 
and  are  faithful  to  the  end  I  And  1 — think  how  I  drag  on 
living  with  all  that  makes  life  worth  liaving  gone  fore'  ur. 


M 


186 


TiTK  baronet's  rniDE. 


whilo  thoBO  happy  onoH,  whoae  lives  uro  one  blissful  dream, 
nro  t«'iri  by  dcjitli  from  ull  wlu)  lovo  thoih.  To  think  that 
]  onco  hml  i\  liuHbund,  ti  (;hil(l,  a  home;  to  think  what  I 
aim  now — to  think  of  it,  and  not  to  go  mad  I" 

Sho  laid  hor  lucc  againnt  tho  coltl  glass  with  a  misernblo 
groan.  "  Ilavo  pity  on  mo,  oh.  Lord!"  was  hur  despair- 
ing wail,  "  and  let  mc  die!'' 

There  was  a  rush  of  carriago-whcels  without,  a  hansom 
cab  whirled  up  to  tho  door,  and  a  tall  young  man  leaped 
out.  Two  mniutes  more  and  the  tall  young  man  bural 
impetuously  into  the  dark  room. 

*'  AH  alono,  Mrs.  Donover,"  called  a  cheery  voice,  "  and 
all  in  the  dark?  J)ari\ne88  isn't  wholesome — too  conducive 
to  low  B})irit8  and  the  blue  devils.  Halloo!  Jane  Anne, 
idol  of  niy  young  ad'ections,  bring  up  the  gas." 

lie  leaned  over  tho  greasy  bahister,  shouting  into  tho  in- 
visible regions  below,  and  was  answered  jjromptly  enough 
by  a  grimy  maid-servant  with  a  llickering  (li])-candle. 

"  'Tain't  my  fault,  nor  yet  missis's,  '  said  this  grimy 
maid,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  Mrs.  Denover  will  ait  in 
the  dark,  which  I've — " 

"That  will  do,  .lano  Anno,"  taking  the  dij)  and  \m- 
coromoniously  cutting  her  short.  "  Vamose!  evaj)orate! 
When  J  want  you  I'll  sing  out." 

He  re-entered  tho  room  and  placed  tho  candle  on  tho 
table.  Tho  woman  hail  risen,  and  stood  with  both  hands 
clasped  over  her  heart,  a  wihl,  gleaming,  eager  light  in 
her  black  eyes,     liut  she  strove  to  restrain  herself. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  back,  Mr.  Parnuvlee,"  she  said, 
falteringly.  "  1  have  been  expecting  you  for  the  last  two 
days." 

"  And  wearing  yourself  to  skin  and  bone,  as  I  know  you 
would,  with  your  fidgets.  What's  the  good  of  taking  on 
so!''  I  told  you  I'd  come  back  as  quick  as  I  could,  and  I've 
done  80.  It  ain't  my  fault  that  the  time's  been  so  long — 
it's  Lady  Kingsland's. " 

The  wild  look  grew  wilder;  she  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  You  have  seen  her?'* 

"That  I  have.  And  very  well  worth  seeing  sho  is,  I 
toll  you.  She's  as  handsome  as  a  picture,  though  not  so 
han«l«orae  as  you  must  have  been  at  her  age,  either,  Mrs. 
Denover.     And  she  says  she'll  see  you." 

"  Oh,  thank  God!" 


i 


sss^cma 


THE    rAPONRT's    BRTDl, 


187 


lir- 


i 


Tko  woman  tottorc<l  back  and  sunk  into  a  chair,  ntterly 
Hnnblc  l.o  Htund. 

"  Tlmt'H  ri<,'lit,"  mud  Mr.  rarnmloe;  '*  take  a  seat,  and 
let  MS  talk  iL  all  o\or  at  our  eiisi>. ** 

He  took  ono  liluist'lf,  not  in  tho  ordinary  hunidruni 
fanhion,  but  witli  hia  fac;o  to  tho  ba(^k,  his  arms  (irosscd 
over  it,  and  his  long  Icgn  twistud  8(!ii'ntilioalIy  round  tho 
bottom. 

"  I'vo  soon  him,  and  I've  soon  her/*  said  tho  j)hotog- 
raplior,  "  and  a  iiner-looking  <'ouj)i(5  ain't  from  licro  to 
anyw'horo.  And  as  tho  Lord  mado  'em.  Ho  matched  'em, 
for  an  all-lircd  jn'ouder  pair  you  couldn't  meet  in  a  sum- 
mer-day's walk." 

*'  Siio  comes  of  a  proud  race,"  tho  woman  murmured, 
feebly.  **  The  ITunsilens  are  of  the  best  and  <ddest  stock 
in  England." 

*'  And  she's  a  thorougli-hred,  if  over  there  was  a  tlior- 
ough-bred  one  yet,  and  blood  will  show  in  a  wonum  as  well 
m  a  horse.  Yes,  she's  ]m-()U(1,  and  she's  handsome  and 
high-8tep])ing,  and  dreadful  cut  up,  I  can  tell  you,  at  tho 
news  1  brought  her." 

The  woman  covered  her  faco  with  her  hands  with  a  low 
moan.     Mr.  Parnuiloo  com])()setlly  went  on: 

"  She  knew  your  picture  tho  minute  she  cla])ped  eyes  on 
it.  I  was  afraid  she  might  holler,  as  you  wimmin  do,  at 
tho  sight,  and  her  husband  and  anotlier  young  woman 
were  present;  but  she's  got  grit,  that  girl,  the  real  sort. 
Sho  turns  round,  by  d'eorge!  and  gives  me  such  a  look — 
went  through  me  like  a  carving-knife — and  gets  up  with- 
ont  a  word  and  walks  away.  And  she  never  sent  for  mo 
nor  asked  a  (juestion  about  it,  although  I  mentioned  you 
gave  it  to  me  yourself,  until  1  foroed  her  to  it,  and  after 
that  no  one  need  talk  to  nie  about  tho  curiosity  of  the  fair 


jOvJL* 


)) 


'*  Does  her  husband  know?" 

"  Tso;  and  he's  as  jealous  as  a  Turk.  I  wrote  her  a  note 
— just  a  line — and  sent  it  by  that  other  young  woman  I 
spoke  of,  and  what  docs  ho  do  but  come  to  me  like  a  roar- 
ing lion,  and  like  to  pummel  my  innards  out!  1  owe  him 
one  for  that,  and  I'll  i)ay  him  olT,  too.  I  had  to  send 
again  to  my  lady  before  she  would  condescend  to  see  me, 
but  when  she  did,  1  must  say  she  behaved  like  a  trump. 
SJio  gave  me  thirty  sovereigns  plump  down,  promised  me 


I, 


'\ 


,.^.. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


128 


■  50 


12.2 


I  ■;£   12.0 

MUl- 


I: 
I 


IL25  11.4 


1.6 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WfST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  U580 

(716)  872-4503 


i^4 


i.^ 


:.K^<!**..;f»«,,.^»,^+^i-„ 


188 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDB. 


three  hundred  pounds,  and  told  mo  to  fetch  you  along. 
It  ain't  as  much  as  I  expected  to  make  in  this  speculation; 
but,  on  the  whole,  I  consider  it  a  pretty  tolerable  fair 
stroke  of  business." 

"  Thank  God!"  the  woman  whispered,  her  face  still 
hidden — "thank  God!  thank  God!  1  shall  see  my  lost 
darling  once  before  I  die!" 

"  Now  don't  you  go  and  take  on,  Mrs.  Denover,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Parmalee,  "  or  you'll  use  yourself  up,  you 
know,  and  then  you  won't  be  able  to  travel  to-morrow. 
And  after  to-morrow,  and  after  you  see  your —  Well,  my 
lady,  there's  the  other  little  trip  back  to  Uncle  Sam's  do- 
mains you've  got  to  make;  for,  of  course,  you  ain't  a-go- 
iug  to  stay  in  England  and  pester  that  poor  young  lady's 
life  out?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Denover,  mournfully — "  no,  I  will 
never  trouble  her  again.  Only  let  me  see  her  once  more, 
and  I  will  go  back  to  my  native  land  and  wait  until  the 
merciful  God  sends  me  death. " 

"  Oh,  pooh!"  said  the  artist;  "  don't  you  talk  like  that 
— it  kind  of  makes  my  flesh  creep,  and  there  ain't  no  sense 
in  it.  There's  Aunt  Deborah,  down  to  our  section — you 
remind  me  of  her — she  was  always  going  on  so,  wishing 
she  was  in  heaven,  or  something  horrid,  the  whole  time. 
It's  want  of  victuals  more  than  anything  else.  You 
haven't  had  any  dinner,  I'll  be  bound!" 

*'  No;  I  could  not  eat." 

**  Nor  supper?" 

*'  No;  I  never  thought  of  it." 

Mr.  Parmalee  got  up,  and  was  out  of  the  room  and 
hanging  o\er  the  baluster  in  a  twinkling. 

"  Here  you,  Jane  Anne!" 

Jane  Anne  appeared. 

*' Fetch  up  supper,  and  look  sharp — supper  for  two. 
Go  'round  the  corner  and  get  us  some  oysters  and  a  pint 
of  port,  and  fetch  up  some  baked  potatoes  and  hot  mut- 
ton chops — and  quick  about  it." 

"Now,  then,"  said  Mr.  Parmnlee,  reappearing,  "I've 
been  and  dispatched  the  slavey  for  provisions,  and  you've 
got  to  eat,  marm,  when  they  come.  I  won't  have  people 
living  on  one  meal  a  day,  and  wishing  they  were  in  heaven, 
when  I'm  around.  You've  got  to  eat  and  drink,  or  you 
won't  go  a  step  with  me  to-morroir.  '* 


if 


r>AXl^£/« 


•tQQ 


ion; 
fair 


Tbc  threat  was  effective.  The  woman  looked  at  him 
with  wistful,  yearning  dark  eyes. 

"  1  will  do  whatever  you  think  best,  Mr.  Parmalee," 
she  said,  humbly.     "  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.^' 


a 


I  know  it,"  said  Mr.   Parmalee,   with  a  nod. 


it 


always  do  the  polite  thing  witli  your  sex.  My  mother  was 
a  woman.  She's  down  in  Maine  now,  and  can  churn  and 
milk  eight  cows,  and  do  chores,  and  make  squash  pie. 
Oh!  them  squash  pies  of  my  old  lady's  require  to  be  eat  to 
be  believed  in;  and,  for  her  sake,  I  always  take  to  elderly 
female  parties  in  distress.  Here's  the  forage.  Come  in, 
Jane  Anne,  beloved  of  my  soul,  and  dump  'cm  down  and 

go." 

Jane  Anne  did.  Mr.  Parmalee  whif>ped  off  the  covers, 
and  a  most  savory  odor  arose. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Denover,  you  sit  right  up  and  fall  to. 
Here's  oysters,  and  here's  mutton  chops,  raging  hot,  and 
baked  potatoes — delicious  to  look  at.  And  here's  a  glass 
of  port  wine,  and  you've  got  to  drink  it  without  a  whim- 
per. Mind  what  1  told  you;  you  don't  budge  a  step  to- 
morrow unless  you  eat  a  hearty  supper  to-night.  I've  said 
it,  and  what  I  say  is  like  the  laws  of  the  Swedes  and — 
what's  their  names?" 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me,"  Mrs.  Denover  repeated, 
humbly  and  gratefully.  *'  What  would  have  become  of 
me  but  for  you?" 

She  strove  to  eat  and  drink  to  please  him  and  to  sustain 
her  feeble  strength,  but  every  morsel  seemed  to  choke  her. 
She  pushed  away  her  plate  at  last  and  looked  at  him  im- 
ploringly. 

"  J  can  not  eat  another  mouthful.  Indeed  I  would  if  I 
could.     I  have  no  appetite  at  all  of  late." 

'*  That's  plain  to  be  seen.  Well,  if  you  can't,  you 
can't,  of  course.  And  now,  as  it's  past  nine,  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  go  to  bed  at  once,  and  get  a  good 
sleep  before  starting  on  your  journey." 

With  the  same  humility  she  had  evinced  throughout, 
the  woman  obeyed  at  once.  Mr.  Parmalee,  left  alone, 
sat  over  his  oysters  and  his  port,  luxuriating  in  the  thirty 
sovereigns  in  the  present  and  the  three  hundred  pounds  in 
the  prospective. 

"  It's  been  an  uncommon  good  investment,"  he  reflect- 
ed '*  and  knocks  th«  photograph  business  into  a  cocked 


I 
11 


i       i  !l 


;•'  ^ 


r?: 


XQO 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


hat.  Then  there's  Sybilla — she  goes  with  the  oargMa, 
too.  Three  hundred  pounds  and  a  handsome,  black-eyed 
wife.  I  wish  she  hadn't  such  a  devil  of  a  temper;  but  it's 
in  the  grain  of  your  black-eyed  gals.  I'll  take  her  home 
to  the  farm,  and  if  mother  doesn't  break  her  in  she'll  bo 
the  first  she  ever  failed  with." 

Mr.  Parmalee  retired  betimes,  slept  soundly,  and  was 
up,  brisk  and  breezy,  somewhere  in  the  gray  and  dismal 
day-dawn.  Breakfast,  piping  hot,  smoked  on  the  table 
when  Mrs.  Denover  appeared — a  wan,  worn  specter  in  the 
hollow  morning  light. 

"  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee. 
"  Here's  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  How  of  soul.  Go  in 
and  win,  Mrs.  Denover.  Try  that  under-done  steak,  and 
don't  look  quite  so  much  like  the  ghost  of  Hamlet's  fa- 
ther, if  you  can  help  it." 

The  woman  tried  with  touching  humility  to  please  him, 
and  did  her  best,  but  that  best  was  a  miserable  failure. 

A  cab  came  for  them  in  half  an  hour,  and  whirled  them 
off  on  the  first  stage  of  their  journey. 

In  the  golden  light  of  the  sunny  spring  afternoon  Mr. 
Parmalee  made  his  appearance  again  at  the  Blue  Bell  Inn, 
with  a  mysterious  veiled  lady,  all  in  black,  hanging  on  his 
arm. 

*'  This  here  lady  is  my  maiden  aunt,  come  over  from 
the  State  of  Maine  to  see  your  British  institutions,"  Mr. 
Parmalee  said,  in  fluent  fiction,  to  the  obsequious  land- 
lady. **  She's  writing  a  book,  and  she'll  mention  the 
Blue  Bell  favorably  in  it.  Her  name  is  Miss  Hcpzekiah 
Parmalee.  Let  her  have  your  best  bedroom  and  all  the 
luxuries  this  here  hotel  affords,  and  I " — with  a  superb 
wave  of  the  hand — "  will  foot  the  bill.'* 

He  lighted  a  cigar  and  sallied  forth,  leaving  his  pale, 
ishrinking  companion  in  charge  of  the  curious  landlady. 

*'Miss  Hepzokiah  Parmalee  "  dined  alone  in  her  own 
room;  then  sat  by  the  window,  with  white  face  and 
strained  eyes,  waiting  for  Mr.  Parmalee's  return. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  he  came.  He  entered  hurded- 
ly,  flushed  and  excited. 

'*  Fortune  favors  us  this  bout,  Mrs.  Denover,"  he  said. 
**  I've  met  an  old  cliurn  down  on  the  wharf  yonder — a 
countryman — and  I'd  as  soon  have  expected  to  find  the 
President  of  the  United  States  iu  this  little  one-horse  town. 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


191 


Mie  name's  Davis— Ciiptain  Davis,  of  the  schooner  *  An- 
gelina uobbs  '—-anti,  he's  going  to  sail  for  Southampton 
this  very  nigl.it,  if  the  wind  holds.  There's  a  streak  of 
iucif,  marm.  A  free  passage  for  you  and  for  me  up  to 
Southampton  to-night." 

'*  But  my— Lady  Kingsland?"  she  faltered. 

"  I've  made  that  all  right,  too.  1  met  one  of  the 
flunkies — an  undor-gardenor — and  sent  word  to  Sybilla — a 
young  lady  that  lives  in  the  house — that  we  were  here,  and 
that  she'd  better  see  us  at  once.  I  expect  an  answer 
every —    Ah,  by  George  I  speak  of  the — here  she  is!" 

It  was  Miss  Sybilla  Silver,  saihng  gracefully  down  the 
street.  Mr.  Parmalee  darted  out  and  met  her — superbly 
handsome,  her  dark  cheeks  flushed  with  some  inward  ex- 
citement, her  black  eyes  gleaming  with  strange  fire.  The 
stoical  artist  was  fairly  dazzled. 

"  Is  she  here?"  she  breathlessly  asked. 

Mr.  Parmalee  nodded  toward  the  window.  It  was  not  a 
very  lover-like  greeting.  They  did  not  even  shake  hands; 
but  then  curious  eyes  were  watching  them. 

Sybilla  gazed  up  a  moment  at  the  pale,  haggarct  face 
with  her  gleaming  eyes. 

"  They  are  alike,"  she  said,  under  her  breath — '*  moth- 
er and  daughter — and  that  face  is  scarcely  more  haggard 
than  the  other  now.  We  have  had  a  dreadful  quari«l, 
Mr.  Parmalee,  since  you  left,  up  at  the  Court" 

"  Want  to  know  about  me?" 

"  Partly.  About  the  secret — about  that  meeting  in  the 
Beech  Walk.     He  absolutely  threatened  her  life." 

"  Should  like  to  have  been  there  to  hear  him,"  said  Mr. 
Parmalee.  "  It  would  be  paying  off  old  scores  a  little. 
How  did  she  take  it?" 

*'  She  fainted.  Her  maid  found  her  in  a  dead  swoon 
next  morning.  She  did  not  tell  Sir  Everard,  by  my 
advice;  he  would  have  been  for  making  it  up  directly. 
They  have  not  met  since — my  doing,  too.  He  thinks  she 
is  sulking  in  her  room.  He  is  half  mad  to  be  reconciled 
— to  make  a  fool  of  himself,  asking  pardon,  and  all  that 
^-but  I  have  taken  good  care  he  shall  not  He  thinks  she 
is  obstinate  and  sullen;  she  thinks  he  is  full  of  nothing 
but  rage  and  revenge.     It  is  laughable  to  manage  them." 

"  i'un  to  you,  but  death  to  them/'  observed  the  artist 
"*  Yeu  are  flinty,  Sybilla,  and  no  snistake.     I'm  pr©tt,v 


H: 


•t 


I       ' 


1 


rf*^ 


m 


i 


192 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


* 


hard  myself,  but  I  couldn't  torment  folks  like  that  in  eolft 
blood.  lt*s  none  of  my  business,  however,  and  1  don't 
care  how  high  you  pile  the  agony  on  him.  Did  you  tell 
her  the  elderly  party  was  here?" 

*'  Yes.  She  has  not  left  her  room  for  three  days.  She 
IS  the  shadow  of  her  former  self,  and  she  was  dreadfully 
digitated  upon  hearing  it;  but  she  answered,  firmly,  *  1  will 
.ice  her,  and  at  once.  1  will  meet  her  to-night. '  1  asked 
whore,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  she  was  at  a  loss." 

"  The  Beech  Walk,"  suggested  the  artist. 

"  The  Beech  Walk  is  watched.  Sir  Everard's  spies  are 
on  the  lookout.  No — I  know  a  better  place.  The  young 
plantation  slopes  down  to  the  very  water's  edge;  the 
shrubbery  is  thick  and  dense,  the  spot  gloomy;  no  one 
ever  goes  there.  You  can  come  by  water  and  fetch  her  in 
the  boat.  Land  on  the  shore  under  the  stone  terrace, 
about  midnight.  All  will  have  retired,  and  my  lady  will 
meet  you  there." 

"And  you,  Sybilla?  The  old  lady  and  me,  we  sail  at 
the  turn  of  the  tide  for  Southampton — from  there  to  take 
passage  for  America.  I  suppose  you  hain't  forgotten  your 
promise  to  marry  me?" 

She  laughed  softly — a  sweet,  derisive  laugh. 

"Is  it  likely,  George?    I  will  follow  you  to  America 
and  we  will  be  married  there.     It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
go  with  you  now.    You  can  wait  a  couple  of  mouths,  caii 
you  not?" 
'  But—" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  softly  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  luminous  eyes  of  dusky  splendor. 

"  You  must  wait,  George.  1  love  you,  and  I  will  follow 
you  and  be  your  true  and  devoted  wife.  But  you  must 
wait  a  little.  Say  you  agree,  and  let  us  part  until  we 
meet  again — where?    In  New  York?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Mr.  Parmalee  responded,  gruffly. 
"  You're  boss  in  this  business,  it  seems,  and  I've  got  to 
do  as  you  say.  But  it's  hard  on  a  fellow;  1  calk'lated  on 
taking  you  over  with  me." 

"  Would  you  have  me  go  to  you  penniless?  If  you  wait 
1  will  come  to  you  with  a  fortune.  Don't  ask  questions, 
and  don't  stand  staring.  Believe  me,  and  trust  me,  and 
wait.  You  will  bo  on  the  stone  terrace  at  twelve  to-night?" 
She  will,"  said  the  Annirican.      "I'll  wait  in  the 


(< 


THE    r.ARONET  S    BRIDB. 


"a 


199 


boat.  ^Tain't  likely  thoy  want  me  to  bo  present  at  tlieir 
interview.  Just  remind  my  lady  to  fetch  along  the  throe 
hundred  pounds,  and  don't  let  her  fail  to  come.  I  want 
to  sail  in  the  *  Angelina  Dobbs  '  to-night. " 

*'  She  will  not  fail.     She  will  come." 

Her  eyes  blazed  up  with  a  lurid  fire  as  sne  said  it.  A 
strange,  unearthly  light  illumined  her  dark  face  for  an  in- 
stant, and  was  gone. 

*'  She  will  be  there,''  she  said,  '*  and  she  shall  fetch  the 
three  hundred  pounds.     Do  you  not  fail!" 

"  I  will  not.     Will  you  be  there,  too,  Sybilla?" 

**  I?    Of  course  not.     There  is  no  need  of  mo." 

"  Then  we  say  good-bye  here?" 

*^Yes.  Good-bye,  George,  until  we  meet  in  Now 
York." 

She  laughed  up  in  his  face — a  laugh  of  pure  derision; 
but  he  did  not  know  it. 

*'  I  will  write  to  you  from  there,"  he  said,  wringing  her 
hand.  "  Good-bye,  Sybilla!  I  will  be  at  the  trysting- 
place  to-night,     lie  sure  the  other  party  is,  too. " 

*'  Without  fail.     Adieu,  and — forever!" 

She  waved  her  hand  and  flitted  away,  uttering  the  last 
word  under  her  breath. 

Mr.  Parmalee  watched  her  out  of  sight,  heaved  a  heavy 
sigh,  and  went  back  to  the  house. 

Swiftly  Sybilla  Silver  fluttered  along  in  the  chill  even- 
ing wind,  her  face  to  the  sunset  sky.  But  not  the  pale 
yellow  luster  of  that  February  sunset  lighted  her  dark  face 
with  that  lurid,  unnatural  light — the  flame  burned  within. 
Two  fierce  red  spots  blazed  on  either  ciieek;  her  cyea 
glowed  like  living  coals;  her  hands  were  clinched  under 
ner  shawl. 

"  She  will  be  there,"  she  whispered,  under  her  brcatk 
— '*  she  will  be  there,  but  she  never  will  return.  By  the 
wrongs  of  the  dead,  by  the  vengeance  I  have  sworn,  this 
night  shall  be  her  last  on  earth.  And  he  shall  pay  tha 
penalty — my  oath  will  be  kept,  the  astrologer's  prediction 
iHl^Ued,  and  2enith  the  gypsy  avenged  I" 


:^i 


:i'i. 


194 


THE    BAROKET'S    BKIDE. 


i 


i 


CHAPTEK  XXVil. 

•'  HAVE   YOU    PRAYED   TO-NTGllT,    DKSDEMOl^A?" 

I'lfE  Sim  went  down  — a  fiurco  and  vvratlifiil  sunset. 
Bluck  and  brazen  yellow  ilanied  in  the  western  sky;  the  sea 
hiy  glassy  and  broathietis;  the  wind  came  in  fitful  gusts 
until  the  sun  went  down,  and  then  died  out  in  dead  and 
ominous  calm.  The  trees  hi  the  ^Dark  shivered  and 
moaned — their  prescience  of  coming  storm;  inky  clouds 
scudded  over  the  wrathful  sky;  night  fell  an  hour  befor« 
its  time. 

My  lady  sat  by  her  chamber  window,  looking  out  af 
black  sea  and  blacker  sky.  Exquisite  pictures,  wonderful 
bric-a-brac  treasures,  inlaid  tables  and  cabinets,  richest 
carpets  and  curtains,  and  chairs  that  were  like  ivory 
touched  up  with  gold,  made  the  room  a  miracle  of  beauty. 

Books  and  flowers — all  of  the  brightest  and  best — fuU- 
length  mirrors,  a  bijou  of  a  Swiss  clock  that  played  lovely 
kittle  tunes-- everything  love  and  money  combined  coald 
procure  was  there  to  brishton  my  lady's  bower. 

But  my  lady  herself,  sitting  alone  amid  the  rose-colored 
curtains,  looking  blankly  out  at  the  menacing  sky,  wore  a 
face  as  dark  as  that  sky  itself.  She  had  wasted  to  a  ahad- 
ow;  dark  circles  under  her  hollow  eyes  told  of  sleepless 
nights  and  wretched  days;  her  cheeks  were  haggard,  her 
lips  bloodless. 

The  white  morning-dress  she  still  wore  clung  loosely 
around  hei  wasted  figure;  all  the  bright  hair  was  pasted 
impatiently  off  her  face  and  confined  in  a  net. 

What  did  it  matter  what  she  wore,  since  she  never  left- 
the  room — since  his  eyes  never  fell  on  her? 

No  one  who  had  seen  Harrie  llunsden,  radiant  as 
Hebe,  blooming  as  Venus,  daring  as  Diana,  at  the  mem- 
orable fox-hunt  of  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago,  wooid 
ever  have  recognized  this  haggard,  pallid,  wretched-kok- 
iug  Lady  Kingsland  as  the  same. 

She  sat  still  and  alone,  gazing  out  at  the  dreary  desola- 
tion of  earth  and  heaven.  The  great  house  was  stili  as  a 
tomb;  the  bustle  of  the  servants'  regions  was  far  removed, 
the  gnawing  of  a  mouse  behind  the  black  paneling,  the 
ioft  ticking  of  th@  toy  clock  soujidod  unnaturally  loud. 


THE    BAUONET*B    BRIDE, 


19a 


The  pale,  fixed  fuoe,  the  duck,  despairing  eyes  were 
stran;,'oly  like  that  otlnu-  woru  i'aue  that  had  gazed  from 
the  shabby  London  loilging-hi)U80  but  two  evenings  before. 

"  Darkening,'*'  Harriot  thouglit,  looking  at  the  leaden 
twilight — "darkening,  like  my  life.  Not  two  months  a 
wi^i,  and  his  love  and  trust  gone  forever.  May  Heaven 
piOy  me,  for  there  is  none  on  earth!" 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Lady  Kingsland  had 
learned  to  knovv  that  soft,  light  tap — ^he  had  heard  it 
often  of  late.  A  shiver  ran  over  her,  her  pale  lips  com- 
pressed, her  face  set  cold  and  rigid  as  marble. 

"■  Come  in,''  she  said;  and  Sybilla  entered. 

She  did  not  pause  at  the  closed  door  as  usual;  she  glided 
noiselessly  across  the  room  and  stood  beside  her.  So  like 
a  ghost  she  camo,  her  dead-black  garments  making  no 
rustle,  her  footfall  making  no  sound,  her  white  face  awfully 
corpse-like  in  the  spectral  light,  her  black  eyes  glowing 
like  a  cat's  in  the  dark;  my  lady  shrunk  in  absolute 
affright. 

"  Don't  come  any  nearer!''  she  cried,  putting  out  her 
hands.     "  What  do  you  want?" 

"  I  have  seen  Mr.  Parnialee,  my  lady." 

Her  tones  were  the  same  as  usual — soft,  and  melodious, 
and  respectful.  But  the  gentle  voice  did  not  reassure 
Lady  Kingsland. 

'*  Well?"  she  said,  coldly. 

"He  will  be  there,  my  lady.  At  half  past  eleven  to- 
night you  will  find — your  mother  "—slowly  and  distinctly 
— "  waiting  for  you  on  the  terrace  down  by  the  shore." 

"  Half  past  eleven.     Why  so  very  late?" 

"  My  lady,  it  will  not  be  safe  for  you  to  venture  out  be- 
fore.   You  are  watched!" 

She  sunk  her  voice  to  a  thrilling  whisper.  My  lady'g 
pale  face  flushed  vivid  red  in  an  instant. 

"Watched!"  she  repeated,  haughtily.  "  Do  you  mean, 
Sybilla  Silver—" 

"I  mean,  my  lady,"  Miss  Silver  said,  firmly,  "Sir 
Everard  has  set  spies.  The  Beech  Walk  is  watched  by 
night  and  by  day.  Claudine  is  little  better  than  a  tool  in 
the  hands  of  Edwards,  the  valet,  with  whom  she  is  in  love. 
She  tells  everything  to  Edwards,  and  Edwards  repeats  to 
his  master.  A  quarter  past  eleven  all  will  be  still — the 
household  will  ImQ  retired—you  may  venture  lortb  in 


;  1 


-^.-M'^w^'Hf'. 


19G 


THE    15AK0NI:T  s    huidk. 


!    >: 


safety.  Tlic  iii^lit  will  bo  chirk,  ilio  way  lonely  ;iiul  (Ii'k- 
mal;  but  you  know  it  every  iucli.  On  the  sLouu  terruco, 
at  half  i)ast  eleven,  you  will  Ihul — your  mother  awaiting 
you.  You  can  talk  to  her  in  perfect  safety,  and  for  an 
long  as  you  choose. '* 

The  dark-rod  glow — abin-ningflrcof  shanio — yet  lighted 
my  lady's  faeo. 

*'  Have  you  aeon  her?"  she  asked. 

**  At  the  window  of  the  Blue  Jiell  Inn — yes,  my  lady.  It 
is  very  rash  for  her  to  expose  herself,  too,  for  hers  is  u 
face  to  strike  attention  at  once,  if  only  for  the  wreck  of  its 
beauty,  and  for  its  unutterable  look  of  despair.  But  as 
she  leaves  again  so  soon,  I  dare  say  nothing  will  come  of 
it." 

'*  When  do  they  leave?" 

•'  To-night.  It  appears  a  friend  of  Mr.  Parmalec  is 
captain  of  a  little  vessel  down  in  the  harbor,  and  ho  sails 
for  Southampton  at  the  turn  of  the  tide — somewhere  past 
midnight.  It  is  a  very  convenient  arrangement  for  all 
parties.  By  the  bye,  Mr.  Parmalocj  told  me  to  remind 
you,  my  lady,  of  the  three  hundred  pounds." 

*'  Mr.  Parmalee  is  impertinent.  I  need  no  reminder. 
Have  you  anything  more  to  say,  Miss  Silver?" 

"Only  this,  my  lady:  the  servants'  entrance  on  the 
south  side  of  the  house  will  be  the  safest  way  for  you  to 
take,  and  the  nearest.  If  you  dread  the  long,  dark  walk, 
my  lady,  I  will  be  only  too  happy  to  accompany  you." 

A  stare,  haughty  and  angry,  was  all  Miss  Silver's  reward 
for  this. 

*'You  are  very  good.  I  don't  in  the  least  dread  it. 
When  I  wish  you  to  accompany  me  anywhere  I  will  say 


so. 


}> 


Sybilla  bowed,  rebuked,  and  the  darkness  hid  a  sinister 
smile.  She  had  known  what  the  reply  would  be  before- 
hand. 

'*  You  have  no  orders  for  me,  then,  my  lady?" 

"  None.  Yes,  you  had  better  see  Claudine,  and  say  I 
shall  not  require  her  services  to-night.  Inform  me  when 
the  servants  have  all  retired,  and  " — a  momentary  hesita- 
tion, but  still  speaking  proudly — *'  does  Sir  Everard  dine 
at  hoDie  this  evening?" 

"  Sir  Everard  just  rode  off  as  I  came  in,  my  lady.  He 
dmes  with  Major  Morrell  and  the  officers,  and  will  not  re- 


THE    HARONET'H    BUIDE. 


1»7 


11  or  im 
Ightcd 


fly.  Jt 
is  ji 


turn  iiniil  pust  niidniglil;,  very  likely.  lie  is  always  late 
aL  tiioso  military  diiiiiorH." 

"  That  will  do;  yoii  may  go." 

*'  {Shall  I  not  liglit  tho  lamp,  my  lady?" 

"  No;  be  good  enough  to  leave  mo. 

Sybilla  quitted  tho  room,  her  white  tectii  set  together 
in  a  viperish  clinch. 

"  llow  she  hates  me,  and  how  resolved  she  is  to  show  iti 
Very  well,  my  lady.  You  don't  hate  me  one  thousandth 
narli  as  much  as  1  hate  you;  and  yet  my  hatred  of  you  is 
but  a  drop  in  the  ocean  C()mi)ared  to  my  deadly  vengeance 
against  your  husband.  (Jo,  my  haughty  Lady  Kingsland 
—go  to  your  trvst — go  to  your  doathP* 

Liil't  alone,  Ilai'riot  sat  in  the  deepening  darkness  for 
over  three  hours,  never  moving — still  and  motionless  as  if 
turned  to  stone. 

The  very  "  blackness  of  darkness  "  reigned  without. 
8ky  and  earth  and  sea  were  one  inky  pall  of  gloom.  The 
wind  was  rising  again  in  wailing  gusts,  sobbing  through 
tho  trees  like  a  hunum  thing  in  misery;  the  dull  wash  of 
the  booming  waves,  far  down  on  the  shore,  sounded  like 
distant  thunder. 

And  still  my  lady  sat,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  rayless 
blackness,  her  hands  locked  together  in  her  lap — the  gloom 
of  the  ghastly  February  night  not  half  so  deep,  not  half  so 
deadly  as  the  gloom  of  her  heart. 

The  pretty  Swiss  clock  played  a  waltz  preparatory  to 
striking  eleven.  She  sat  and  listened  until  the  last  musical 
chime  died  away;  then  she  rose,  groped  her  way  to  the 
low,  marble  chimney-piece,  struck  a  lucifer,  and  lighted  a 
large  lamp. 

The  brilliant  light  flooded  the  room.  Sybilla's  rap  came 
that  same  instant  softly  upon  the  door. 

"My  lady." 

"  I  hear,"  my  lady  said,  not  opening  it.    "  What  is  it?'* 

"All  have  retired;  the  house  is  as  still  as  the  grave. 
The  south  door  is  unfastened;  the  coast  is  clear." 

**  It  is  well.     Good-night.^ 


»f 


"Good-night." 


She  stood  a  moment  listening  to  the  soft  rustle  of  Misa 
Silver's  skirts  in  the  passage,  then,  slowly  and  mechanic- 
ally, she  began  to  prepare  for  her  night's  work. 

She  took  a  long,  shrouding  mantle,  wrapped  it  around 


li 


Hi 


!  ■  M 

Kir 
■i 


'• 


' 


198 


THE    BAHONFT'fl    BUTDE. 


hi 


( '. 


h  ! 


her,  drew  tho  hood  over  her  lioml,  and  oxdiangod  her 
Hlippors  for  stout  vvtvlkiujjj-Hhoes.  'I'licTi  slio  unlockod  hor 
writinjj-case  and  drew  forth  a  roll  of  bank-notes,  thrust 
them  into  her  hosoin,  and  stood  ready. 

]>ut  hIio  paused  an  instant  yet.  Siio  stood  before  one  of 
tho  full-length  mirrors,  looking  at  lier  spectral  faee,  so  hol- 
low, so  liaggard,  out  of  which  all  the  youth  and  beauty 
seemed  gone.  1 

"  And  this  is  what  one  short  month  ago  he  called  bright 
and  beautiful — this  wasteil^  sunken-eyed  vision.  Youth 
and  beauty,  love  and  trust  and  happiness,  homo  and  hus- 
band, all  lost    Oh,  my  father,  what  have  you  done?'* 

8he  gave  one  dry,  tearless  sob.  Tho  clock  struck  tho 
quarter  past.     The  sound  aroused  her. 

"  My  mother,"  she  said — "  let  me  think  I  go  to  meet 
my  mother.  Sinful,  degraded,  an  outcast,  but  still  my 
mother.     Let  me  think  of  that,  and  be  brave.*' 

She  opened  her  door;  the  stillness  of  death  reigned.  Sho 
glided  down  the  corridor,  down  the  sweeping  stair-way,  tho 
soft  carpeting  muffling  every  tread — tho  dim  night-lamps, 
burning  the  night  through  in  those  spacious  passages, 
lighting  her  on  her  way. 

No  human  sound  startled  her.  All  in  the  house  wore 
peacefully  asleep — all  save  that  flying  figure,  and  one 
other  wicked  watcher.  She  gained  the  door  in  safety.  It 
yielded  to  her  touch.  She  opened  it,  and  was  out  alone  in 
the  black,  gusty  night. 

The  path  leading  to  the  stone  terrace  through  the  plan- 
tation was  as  familiar  to  Lady  Kingsland  as  path  could  bo 
— a  gloomy  path  even  at  midday,  lost  in  shadows,  deserted 
and  lonely  as  the  heart  of  some  primeval  forest.  But  at 
this  ghostly  hour,  under  yonder  black  sky,  with  the  wind 
roaring  in  unearthly  shrieks  through  the  rocking  trees,  it 
required  no  ordinary  courage  to  face  its  dismal  horrors. 

But  Harriet  Kingsland's  brave  heart  quailed  only  for  a 
moment;  then  she  plunged  resolutely  forward  into  the 
gloom.  Shipping,  stumbling,  falling,  rising  again,  the 
wind  beating  in  her  face,  the  branches  catching  like  angry 
hands  at  her  garments — still  she  hurried  on.  Her  heart 
seemed  to  have  ceased  its  throbbings,  the  white  dew  of  un- 
utterable horror  stood  on  her  brow,  but  with  hands  out- 
spread before  her,  with  wild  eyes  straining  the  darkness, 
she  went  bravely  on.     It  was  a  long,  long,  tortuous  path, 


.M-i 


TflE    ItAUOl-iKX's    bUIDI. 


190 


but  it  came  to  un  end.  The  roar  of  tho  soa  soiindod 
uwfuUy  loud  as  it  rose  in  sullon  iniijosty,  tlio  Hags  of  tho 
stono  torraco  rang  under  hur  feet.  J'ariting,  breaUilcss, 
cold  as  death,  ahe  leaned  against  the  iron  railing,  her  handa 
pressed  hard  over  her  tumultuous  heart. 

It  was  light  hero.  A  fitful  midnight  moon,  palo  and 
feeble,  was  breaking  through  a  rift  in  tho  cloudn,  and 
shedding  its  sickly  glimmer  over  tho  black  earth  and  rag- 
ing sea.  To  her  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  dense  darkness, 
every  object  was  jdaiidy  visible.  fShe  strained  her  guzo 
over  the  waves  to  catch  tho  coming  boat  she  know  was  to 
bear  those  she  had  come  to  meet;  she  listened  breathlessly 
to  every  sound.  liut  for  a  weary  while  she  listened,  anfii 
watched,  and  waited  in  vain.  AVhat  was  that?  A  foot- 
step crashing  through  tho  under-wood  uear  at  hand.  Sho 
turned  with  a  wordless  cry  of  terror.  A  tall,  dark  liguro 
emerged  from  the  trees  and  strode  straight  toward  her. 
An  awful  voice  spoko: 

"  1  swore  by  tho  Lord  who  made  me  I  would  murder 
you  if  you  ever  came  again  to  meet  that  man.  False  wife, 
accursed  traitoress,  meet  your  do(»mI" 

Sho  uttered  a  long,  low  cry.  She  recognized  the  voice 
— it  was  the  voice  of  her  husband;  she  recognized  the 
form — her  husband's — towering  over  her,  with  a  long, 
gleaming  dagger  in  his  hand. 


H 


I  'I 


CHAPTER  XXVm. 

ON  THE   STONE   TERRACE. 

When  Sybilla  Silver  parted  from  Lady  Kingsland  out- 
side the  chamber  door,  she  went  straight  to  her  own  room, 
and  began  her  preparations  for  that  night's  work. 

The  tlaming  red  spots,  all  foreign  to  her  usual  complex- 
ion, blazed  on  either  cheek-bone;  her  black  eyes  shone  like 
the  eyes  of  a  tigress  crouched  in  a  jungle. 

But  she  never  faltered — she  never  wavered  in  her  deadly 
purpose.  The  aim  of  her  whole  life  was  to  be  fulfilled  this 
night — the  ma7ics  of  her  dead  kinsfolk  to  be  appeased. 

Her  first  act  was  to  sit  down  and  write  a  note.  It  was 
very  brief,  illy  spelled,  vilely  written,  on  a  sheet  of  coarsest 
paper,  and  sealed  with  a  big  blotch  of  red  wax  and.  thj 
Impress  o£  a  grimj^  thumb.    Thia  is  what  Miss  Silver  wrote: 


' .  ill 


200 


THK    BAHONET'S    lUHDE. 


*'  SUR  nKVEKAHD  KjNGSLAND: 

*'  IIoNUHED   Sill, — This  is   to 


tm  i 


il  i  U  i 


! 


f  1 


IS  to  Say  chrtt  my  Lady  k 
Promised  the  hameriusm  Gent,  for  to  meet  him  this  Night 
at  Midnight  on  the  Stone  Terrace,  Which  honoured  Sir  you 
ought  to  Know,  which  is  why  1  write. 

"  Yours  too  Command,        A  Fjuend/* 

The  young  lady  smi'ed  over  this  composition  tho  smile 
of  a  beautiful  devil. 

"  This  will  do  it,  I  think.  Sir  Everard  will  visit  the 
stone  terrace  to-night  before  he  sleeps.  It  will  be  f uJ^y 
eleven,  probably  half  past,  before  he  comes  home.  Ho 
will  find  this  anonymous  communication  awaiting  him. 
lie  will  fume  and  stamp  and  spurn  it,  but  he  will  go,  all 
the  same.     And  then!" 

She  sealed  the  note,  directed  it  in  the  same  atrocious  fist 
to  the  baronet,  and  then,  rising,  proceeded  deliberately  to 
undress. 

But  not  to  go  to  bed.  A  large  bundle  lay  on  a  chair;  she 
opened  it,  drew  forth  a  full  suit  of  man's  attire — an  even- 
ing suit  that  the  young  baronet  had  worn  but  a  few  times, 
and  the  very  counterpart  of  that  which  he  wore  to-night. 

Miss  Silver  stood  before  the  glass  and  arrayed  herself  in 
these.  She  was  so  tall  that  they  fitted  her  very  well,  and 
when  her  long  hair  was  scientifically  twisted  up,  and  a  hat 
oE  Sir  Everard's  crushed  down  upon  it,  she  was  as  hand- 
some a  young  fellow  as  you  could  see  in  a  long  day's  search. 

That  vague  and  shadowy  resemblance  to  the  baronet, 
which  Mr.  Parmalee  had  once  noticed,  was  very  palpable 
and  really  striking  when  she  threw  over  all  a  long  riding- 
cloak  which  Sir  Everard  often  wore. 

"You  will  do,  I  think,"  she  said,  to  her  transformed 
image  in  the  glass.  "  Even  my  lady  might  mistake  yoo 
for  her  husband  in  the  uncertain  moonlight." 

She  left  the  mirror,  crossed  the  room,  unlocked  a  trunk 
with  a  key  she  took  out  of  her  bosom,  and  drew  forth  a 
morocco  scabbard  case.  The  crest  of  the  Kingslands  and 
tho  monogram  "  E.  K.,''  fancifully  wrought,  decorated 
the  leather. 

Opening  this,  she  drew  forth  a  long,  glittering  Spanish 
stiletto,  not  much  tliicker  Lhiui  a  cnarte'  noodle,  but  strong 
and  glittering  and  deadly  kooii.  On  fhc  bliining  blade  tho 
monogram  "  E.  K"  was  again  wrui!j.^Jil. 


il 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDE. 


201 


i3 


sho 


"  Sir  Evcrard  has  not  missed  his  pretty  toy  yet,"  she 
muttered.  "If  he  had  only  dreamed,  when  lie  saw  it 
first,  not  a  fortnight  ago,  of  the  deed  it  would  do  this 
night!" 

Sho  closed  the  trunk,  thrust  the  dagger  into  its  scab- 
bard, the  scabbard  into  her  bosom,  blew  out  the  lamp,  and 
softly  opened  the  door.  Sho  paused  a  second  to  listen. 
All  was  still  as  the  grave. 

Sho  locked  her  door  securely,  put  the  key  in  her  pocket, 
and  stole  toward  Sir  Everard*s  rooms.  Her  kid  slippers 
fell  light  as  snow-flakes  on  the  carpet.  She  opened  the 
baronet's  dressing-room  door.  It  had  been  his  sleeping- 
room,  too,  of  late.  His  bed  stood  ready  prepared;  a  lamp 
burned  diuily  on  the  dressing-table.  Beside  the  lamp  Miss 
Silver  placed  her  anonymous  letter,  then  retreated  as 
noiselessly  as  she  had  entered,  shut  the  door,  and  glided 
stealthily  down  the  corridor,  down  the  stairs,  along  the 
passages,  and  out  of  the  same  door  which  my  lady  had 
l)a3sed  not  ten  minutes  previously. 

Swift  as  a  snake,  and  more  deadly  of  purpose,  Sybilla 
glided  along  the  gloomy  avenues  of  the  wood  toward  the 
sea-side  terrace.  Every  nerve  seemed  strung  like  steel, 
every  fiber  of  her  body  quivered  to  its  utmost  tension.  Her 
eyes  blazed  in  the  dark  like  the  eyes  of  a  wild  cat;  she 
looked  like  a  creature  possessed  of  a  devil. 

She  reached  the  extremity  of  the  woodland  path  almost 
as  soon  as  her  victim.  A  moment  she  paused,  glaring  upon 
her  with  eyes  of  fiercest  hate  as  sho  stood  there  alone  and 
defenseless.  The  next,  she  drew  out  the  flashing  stiletto, 
ilung  away  the  scabbard,  and  advanced  with  it  in  her  hand 
and  horrible  words  upon  her  lips. 

'*  I  swore  by  the  Lord  who  made  me  I  would  murder 
you  if  you  ever  came  again  to  meet  that  man!  False  wife, 
accursed  traitoress,  meet  your  doom!" 

There  was  a  wild  shriek.  In  that  fitful  light  she  never 
doubted  for  a  moment  but  that  it  was  her  husband,  and 
the  voice — Sybilla's  stage  practice  and  talent  for  mimicry 
stood  her  in  good  stead  here — the  voice  was  surely  his. 

"  Have  mercy!"  sho  cried-  "  1  am  innocent,  EverardI 
Oh,  for  God's  sake,  do  not  murder  me!" 

"  Wretch— traitoress — diel  You  are  not  fit  to  pollute  the 
earth  longer!  Go  to  your  grav  with  my  hate  and  my 
curse  I" 


'  ti 


\  \ 


W 


i: 


202 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


i    ! 


(ill 


With  a  Rudden  paroxysm  of  mad  fury  the  dagger  was 
lifted — one  fierce  hand  gripped  Harriet's  throat.  A  choking 
shriek — the  dagger  fell — a  gurg.ing  cry  drowned  in  her 
throat— a  fierce  spurt  of  hot  blood — a  reel  backward  and  a 
heavy  fall  over  the  low  iron  railing — down,  down  on  the 
black  shore  beneath — and  the  jiallid  moonlight  gleaming 
above  shone  on  one  figure  standing  on  the  stone  terrace, 
alone,  with  a  dagger  dripping  blood  in  its  hand. 

She  did  not  fly;  it  had  all  been  too  premeditated  for  that. 
She  leaned  over  the  rail.  Down  below— far  down — she 
could  see  a  slender  figure,  with  long  hair  blowing  in  the 
blast,  lying  awfully  still  on  the  sands.  Not  five  feet  of! 
the  great  waves  washed,  rising,  steadily  rising.  In  five 
minutes  more  they  would  wash  the  feet  of  the  terrace — that 
slender  figure  would  lie  there  no  more. 

"  The  fall  alone  would  have  killed  her,"  the  female 
fiend  thought,  glancing  along  the  height.  "  Before  I  am 
half-way  back  to  the  house  those  white-capped  waves  will 
be  her  shroud/' 

She  wrapped  her  cloak  around  her  and  fled  away — back, 
swift  as  the  wind,  into  the  house,  up  the  stairs.  Safe  in  her 
own  room,  she  tore  ofE  her  disguise.  The  cloak  and  the 
trousers  were  horribly  spotted  with  blood.  She  made  all 
into  one  compact  package,  rolled  up  the  dagger  in  the 
bundle,  stole  back  to  the  baronet's  dressing-room  and  list- 
ened, and  peeped  through  the  key-hole.  He  was  not 
there;  the  room  was  empty.  She  went  in,  thrust  the 
bundle  out  of  sight  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  wardrobe, 
and  hastened  back  to  her  chamber.  Her  letter  still  lay 
where  she  had  left  it.     The  baronet  had  not  yet  returned. 

In  her  own  room  Miss  Silver  secured  the  door  upon  the 
inside,  according  to  custom,  donned  her  night-dress,  and 
went  to  bed— went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep — to  watch  and 
\7ait. 

4^  4^  9  n^  ^  Sp  ^ 

The  mess  dinner  was  a  very  tedious  affair  to  one  guest 
*^t  least.  Major  Morrell  and  the  officers  told  good  stories 
and  sung  doubtful  wOngs,  and  passed  the  wine  and  grew 
hilarious;  but  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  chafed  horribly  ander 
it  all,  and  longed  for  the  hour  of  his  release. 

A  dull,  aching  torture  lay  at  his  heart;  a  chill  prcsenti- 
saent  of  evil  had  been  with  him  all  day;  the  tortures  of  love 
and  rage  and  jealousy  had  lashed  him  nearly  into  madaees. 


THE  bak* 'Set's  bride. 


203 


er 

a 

he 


Sfwnetimes  love  carried  all  before  him,  and  he  would 
start  lip  to  rush  to  the  side  of  the  wife  he  loved,  to  clasp 
aer  to  his  heart,  and  defy  earth  and  Hades  to  part  thetn. 
►Sometimes  an<Ter  held  the  day,  and  he  would  puce  up  and 
dc^vn  like  a  madman,  raging  at  her,  at  himself,  at  Parma- 
ice.  at  ail  the  world.  Sometimes  it  was  the  wild  beast, 
jealousy,  and  he  would  fling  himself  face  downward  on  the 
sofa,  writhing  in  the  unutterable  torture  of  that  mental 
agony. 

He  was  haggard  and  worn  and  wild,  and  his  friends 
stared  at  him  and  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  smiled  sig- 
nificantly at  this  outward  evidence  of  post-nuptial  bliss. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  the  young  baronet  mounted 
Sk'  Galahad  and  rode  home.  The  trees  tossed  in  the  stormy 
moonlight,  jagged  clouds  rent  their  way  through  the  low- 
ering sky,  the  night  wind  pierced  to  the  bone.  Kiugsland 
Court  lay  dark  and  still  under  the  frowning  night  sky. 
He  glanced  up  at  the  window  of  his  wife's  chamber.  A 
light  burned  there.  A  longing,  wistful  look  filled  Ikis 
blue  eyes,  his  arms  stretched  out  involuntarily,  his  heart 
gave  a  great  plunge,  as  though  it  would  break  away  and 
fly  to  its  idol. 

*'  My  darling!"  he  murmured,  passionately — '*  my  dat- 
ing, my  life,  my  love,  my  wife!    Oh,  my  God  to  think  I 
should  love  her,  wildly,  madly  still,  believing  her— know^ 
ing  her  to  be  false!" 

He  went  up  to  his  dressing-room,  his  heart  full  to  b«rat- 
ing.  A  mad,  insane  longing  to  go  to  her,  to  foiu  aer  to 
his  breast,  to  forgive  her  all,  to  take  her,  guilty  or  inno- 
cent, and  let  p-;de  and  honor  go  to  the  winds,  was  upoa 
him.  He  ]ovk  .  her  so  intensely,  so  passionately,  that  life 
without  her,  apart  from  her,  was  hourly  increasing  torture. 
.  The  sight  of  a  folded  note  lying  on  the  table  alone  ar- 
fieated  liis  excited  steps.  He  took  it  up,  looked  at  the 
strange  superscription,  tore  it  open,  ran  over  its  diabolical 
contents,  and  reeled  as  if  struck  a  blow, 

'*  Great  Heaven!  it  is  not  true!  it  can  not  be  true!  it  is 
a  vile,  accursed  slander!  My  wife  meet  this  man  alone, 
and  at  midnight,  in  that  forsaken  spot!  Oh,  it  is  impos- 
sible! May  curses  light  upon  the  slanderous  coward  wko 
dared  to  write  this  infernal  lie!" 

He  flung  it,  in  a  paroxysm  of  mad  fury,  into  the  fire. 


!. 


'    I 


■   II 


204 


THE    baronet's    BRTDE. 


A  flash  of  flame,  and  Sybilla  Silver's  artfully  writteD  note 
was  forever  gone.     He  started  up  in  white  fury. 

*'  I  will  go  to  her  room;  I  will  see  for  myself!  I  will 
find  her  safely  asleep,  I  know!'^ 

But  a  horrible  misgiving  filled  him,  even  while  he  ut- 
tered the  brave  words.  He  dashed  out  of  his  room  and 
into  his  wife's.  It  was  deserted.  He  entered  the  bed- 
room. She  was  not  there;  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in. 
He  passed  to  her  boudoir;  that,  too,  was  vacant. 

Sir  Everard  seized  the  bull-rope  and  rang  a  jieal  that 
resounded  with  unearthly  echoes  through  the  sloeping 
house.  Five  minutes  of  mad  impatience — ten;  then 
Claudine,  scared  and  shivering,  appeared,  en  sac  de  nuit 
and  in  her  bare  feet. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress?" 

The  unexpected  sight  of  her  master — his  white,  wild 
face  and  hoarse  question — made  Claudine  recoil  with  a 
shriek. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  how  should  I  know?  Is  not  my  lady  in 
bed?" 

*'  No;  her  bed  has  not  been  slept  in  to-night.  She  is  in 
none  of  her  rooms.     When  did  you  see  her  last?" 

"  About  ten  o'clock.  Sho  dismissed  me  for  the  night; 
she  said  she  would  undress  herself. " 

"  Where  is  Miss  Silver?" 

*'  In  bed,  I  think,  monsieur." 

"  Go  to  her — tell  her  1  want  to  see  her  at  once.  Lose 
no  time. " 

Claudine  disappeared.  Miss  Silver  was  so  very  soundly 
asleep  that  it  required  five  minutes  rapping  to  rouse  her. 
Once  aroused,  however,  she  threw  on  a  dressing-gown, 
thrust  her  feet  into  slippers,  and  appeared  before  the  bar- 
onet, with  a  pale,  anxious,  inquiring  face. 

**  Where  is  my  wife?    Where  is  Lady  Kingsland?" 

**  Good  Heaven  I  is  she  not  here?" 

**  No.  You  know  where  she  is!  Tell  me,  I  commanu 
you!" 

Sybilla  Silver  covered  her  face  with  both  hands,  and 
cowered  before  him  with  every  sign  of  guilt. 

"  Spare  me!"  she  cried,  faintly.     "I  dare  not  tell  you!" 

lie  made  one  stride  forward,  caught  her  by  the  arm,  his 
eyes  glaring  like  the  eyes  of  a  tiger.  Neither  of  them 
heeded  the  wondering';  Claudine, 


Tin;     IlAUONKT^S     r.I.'IDK. 


206 


lote 
rill 

lut- 
md 

ktl- 
in. 


"  Speak!"  lie  tbuDdiM-od;  "  or  by  ilin  llcavon  above  us, 
I'll  tear  it  from  your  throat!     Is  she  with  hiiiii"* 

*'  She  is,"  cowering,  ahriiiiiing,  trembiiug. 

There  was  an  awful  pause. 

"  Where?" 

'*  On  the  stone  terrace." 

*'  llow  do  you  know?" 

"  llo  returneil  this  afternoon;  he  sent  for  mo;  ho  toM 
nic  to  tell  lier  to  moot  him  there  to-night,  about  miduigh'. 
She  did  not  think  yon  would  return  before  two  or  three — 
Oh,  for  pity's  sake — " 

lie  thrust  her  from  liini  with  a  force  tliar,  sent  her  reel- 
ing against  the  wall. 

"  I'll  have  thBir  hearts'  blood!"  he  thundered,  with  an 
awful  oath. 

The  horrible  voice,  tlie  horrible  oath,  was  like  nofhifig 
earthly.  The  two  women  cowered  down,  too  intensoly 
frightened  even  to  scream.  One  other  listener  recoiled  in 
wordless  horror.     It  was  El  wards,  the  v.det. 

The  madman,  goaded  to  insane  fury,  had  rushed  out  of 
the  hall — out  of  the  hons"!.  The  trio  looked  at  each  other 
with  bloodless  faces  and  dilattid  eyes  of  terror. 

Edwards  was  the  lirst  to  tind  liis  paralyzed  tongue: 

"  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us!  There'll  be  mur« 
dor  dont;  this  night!" 

Tlic  two  women  never  ypoke.  Huddled  together,  they 
clung  to  Edwards,  as  women  do  cling  to  men  in  their  bout 
of  fear. 

Half  an  hour  passed;  they  never  moved  nor  stirred. 
They  crouched  and  waited. 

Ten  minutes  more,  and  Sir  Everard  dashed  in  among 
thf'm  as  he  had  dashed  out. 

"  It  is  false!"  he  shouted — "  a  false,  devilish  slandc!-! 
Bho  is  not  there!" 

A  shriek  from  Claudinc — a  wild,  wild  shriek.  Win 
bloodless  cheek  and  starting  eyes,  she  was  pointing  to  tiic 
baronet's  hands. 

All  looked  and  echoed  that  horror-struck  cry.  They 
were  literally  dripping  blood! 


206 


THE    r.AIlONKT  .S    r.T'JDr. 


CIIAPTEJi   XXIX. 


f  >} 


^.l{A^'DKD. 

A  BLAXK,  divtidi'ul  2>">i^9  I'ollowtd.  They  looked  at 
liim,  V*  on^  iiuother,  in  white,  frozen  horror,  and  then  re- 
Goileil. 

The  wurnnet  lifted  his  litinds  to  the  light,  and  guzed  ut 
their  criaisou  hue  witli  will,  diluted  o,es  uiid  ghiis'ly  face. 

"Blood!"  he  t^ail,  i:i  an  awful  whi^pjf — "blood — 
Goi  d  God,  it  is  iierts!     She  is  nniideM  1!" 

The  three  listeners  rocr'ile  1  still  further,  Triralvzcd  at  the 
sight,  at  the  words,  at  the  a-.vful  thought  that  a  murderer, 
reii-hanrlt'd,  ctood  bofore  them. 

The  V'ung  husband  heeled  them  not.  In  the  Hash  of 
an  eye  lie  was  galvanized  inlio  new  life. 

"  A  horrible  deed  his  be^n  done  tin's  nightl"  ho  cried, 
in  a  voice  that  rang  down  tho  long  hall  like  a  bugle  blast. 
'*  A  murder  has  been  ennimiltedl  House  the  li«/use,  fotdi 
lights,  and  fulK>\v  mel" 

Edwiirds  rose  up,  tvembling  in  every  limb. 

"  Quiekl"  his  masLet  thundered.  "  Is  this  a  time  to 
stand  ag.'ipe?  k5yi)illa,  sound  the  alarm!  Let  all  rise  and 
join  in  the  search." 

In  a  m  >ment  all  was  confusion.  Claudine,  o£  a  higMf 
excitable  temi)erament,  no  sooner  recovered  from  her 
stupor  of  disniay,  thee  with  a  piercing  shriek,  she  fainted 
and  tumbled  over  in  a  he.ip. 

But  no  one  heeded  her.  Bella  rang,  lights  flashed,  serv- 
ants, white  and  wild,  rushed  to  and  fro,  and  over  all  the 
voice  of  tlie  muster  rang,  giving  his  orders. 

In  this  supreme  mtment  ho  was  himself  again,  his  faci! 
like  the  face  of  a  dead  man,  but  his  voice  clear  and  ring- 
ing in  stern  command. 

"  Lights,  lights!"  he  shouted.  "  Men,  why  do  you 
linger  and  stare?  Lights!  and  follow  me  to  the  stone  ter- 
race." 

He  led  the  way.  There  was  a  general  rush  from  the 
house.  The  men  bore  lanterns;  the  women  clung  to  the 
men,  terror  and  curiosity  struggling,  but  curiosity  getting 
the  better  of  it.  In  dead  silence  all  made  tiieir  way  to  the 
Btone  terrace — all  but  one. 


, 


THE    BAROKET'S    bride. 


M 


Sybilla  Silver  saw  thorn  depart,  stood  a  moment,  irreso- 
fule,  then  turned  and  sped  away  to  Sir  Everard's  dressing- 
room.  She  drew  the  compact  bundle  of  C3lothe8  from  thttir 
corner,  removed  the  dagger,  tied  up  the  bundle  again  with 
the  weight  inside,  and  hurriedly  left  the  house. 

**  These  bloOLJ-stained  garments  are  not  needed  to  fix  the 
guilt  upon  him,"  she  said  to  herself;  '*  that  is  done  already. 
The  appearance  of  those  would  only  create  confusion  and 
perplexity — perhaps  help  his  cause.  I'll  destroy  these  and 
fling  away  the  dagger  in  the  wood.  They'll  be  sure  to  find 
it  in  a  day  or  two.  They  will  make  such  a  search  that  if  a 
needle  were  lost  it  would  be  found." 

There  was  an  old  sunken  well,  half  filled  with  slimy, 
green  water,  mud,  and  filth,  in  a  remote  end  of  the  plan- 
tation. Thither,  unobserved,  Sybilla  made  her  way  in  the 
ghostly  moonlight  and  flung  her  blood-stained  bundle  into 
its  vile,  poisonous  depths. 

"  Lie  there!"  she  muttered.  **  You  have  done  your 
work,  and  I  fling  you  away,  as  1  fling  away  all  my  tools 
at  my  pleasure.  There,  in  the  green  muck  and  slimy  filth, 
you  will  tell  no  tales." 

She  hurried  away  and  struck  into  a  path  leading  to  the 
stone  terrace.  She  could  see  the  lanterns  in  the  diatanoe 
flashing  like  fire-fly  sparks;  she  could  hear  the  clear  voice 
of  Sir  Everard  Kiugsland  commanding.  All  at  once  the 
twinkling  lights  were  still;  there  was  a  deep  exclamation  in 
the  baronet's  voice,  a  wild  chorus  of  feminine  screams, 
then  blank  silence. 

Sybilla  Silver  threw  the  dagger,  with  a  quick,  fierce  gest- 
ure, into  the  wood,  and  sprung  in  among  them  with  glis- 
tening, greedy  black  eyes.  They  stood  in  a  semicircle,  iu 
horror-struck  silence,  on  the  terrace.  The  light  of  half  a 
doaen  lanterns  streamed  redly  on  the  stone  flooring,  but 
redder  than  that  lurid  light,  a  great  pool  of  blood  lay  gory 
before  them.  The  iron  railing,  painted  creamy  white,  was 
all  clotted  with  jets  of  blood,  and,  clinging  to  a  projecting 
knob,  something  fluttered  in  the  bleak  blast,  but  they  did 
not  see  it.  All  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  awful  sight  before 
them — every  tongue  was  paralyzed.  Over  all  the  strug- 
gling moon  tore  through  ragged  black  clouds,  and  the  spnay 
ol  the  angry  waves  leaped  up  in  their  ver>  faces.  Ed- 
wards, the  valet,  was  the  first  to  break  the  dreadful  silenoe. 
My  master r*  he  epied,  shrilly;  "  he  will  falU" 


1 


I  ! 


(4 


208 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


■,     L 


.1 


t      i' 


r  I 


I     ]': 


He  dropped  his  lantern  and  sprung  forward  just  in  time 
and  no  more.  The  young  baronet  reeled  and  fell  heavily 
backward.  The  sight  of  that  blood— the  life-blood  of  his 
bride — seemed  to  freeze  the  very  heart  in  his  body.  With 
a  low  moan  he  lay  in  his  servant's  arms  like  a  dead  man. 

"  lie  has  fainted,"  said  the  voice  of  Sybilla  Silver. 
*'  Lift  him  up  and  carry  him  to  the  house.'' 

"  Wait!"  cried  some  one.     "  What  is  this?" 

lie  tore  the  fluttering  garment  off  the  projection  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light. 

"  My  lady's  Injy  scarf!" 

No  one  knew  who  spoke — all  recognized  it.  It  was  a 
little  Cashmere  shawl  Lady  Kingsl and  often  wore.  An- 
other thrilling  silence  followed;  then — 

"  The  Lord  be  merciful!"  gasped  a  house-maid.  *'  She's 
been  murdered,  and  we  in  our  beds!" 

Sybilla  Silver,  leaning  lightly  against  the  railing,  turned 
authoritatively  to  Edwards: 

"  Take  your  master  to  his  room,  Edwards.  It  is  no  use 
of  lingering  here  now;  wo  must  wait  until  morning.  Some 
awful  deed  has  been  done,  but  it  may  not  bo  my  lady  mur- 
dered." 

"  How  comes  her  shawl  there,  then?"  asked  the  old 
butler.     *'  Why  can't  she  be  found  in  the  house?" 

"  1  don't  know.  It  is  frightfully  mysterious,  but  noth- 
ing more  can  be  done  to-night." 

"  Can't  there?"  said  the  butler,  who  didn't  like  the  young 
lady  with  the  black  eyes.  '*  Jackson  and  Fletcher  will  go 
to  the  village  and  get  the  police  and  search  every  inch  of 
the  park  before  daylight.  The  murderer  can't  be  far 
away." 

Miss  Silver  bent  a  little  over  the  rail  to  hide  a  sinister 
smile  of  derision.  The  spray  dashed  in  her  face — the 
waves  beat  half-way  up  the  stone  breast-work. 

"  Probably  not,  Mr.  Norris.  Do  as  you  please  about 
the  police,  only  if  you  ever  wish  your  master  to  recover 
from  that  death-like  swoon,  you  will  carry  him  at  once  to 
the  house  and  apply  restoratives. " 

She  turned  away  with  her  loftiest  air  of  hauteur,  and 
Miss  Silver  had  always  been  haughty  to  the  servants. 
More  than  one  dark  glance  followed  her  now. 

"  You're  a  hard  one,  yon  are,  if  there  ever  was  a  hard 


THE    baronet's    HKIDE. 


;^09 


one!"  said  the  butler.  *'  There's  bceu  no  luck  in  the  house 
«ince  you  first  set  foot  in  it." 

*'  She  always  hutecl  my  lady,"  chimed  in  a  fcnutle. 
*'  It's  my  ojiinion  she'll  I  more  ghul  than  sorry  if  she  is 
made  away  with.     She  wanted  Sir  Hvorard  for  herself.'* 

'*  Hold  your  tongue,  Susan!"  angrily  cried  Edwards. 
"You  daren't  call  your  soul  your  own  if  Mias  Silver  was 
listening.  Bear  a  hand  here,  you  fellers,  and  helj)  mo 
fetch  Sir  Heverard  to  the  house.'" 

They  bore  the  insensible  man  to  the  house,  to  his  room, 
where  Edwards  applied  himself  to  his  recovery.  Sybilla 
aided  him  silently,  skillfully.  Meantime,  the  two  gigantic 
footmen  were  galloping  like  mad  to  the  village  to  rouse 
the  stagnant  authorities  with  their  awful  news.  And  the 
servants  remained  huddled  together,  whispering  in  affright; 
then,  in  a  body,  proceeded  to  search  the  house  from  attic 
to  cellar. 

"  My  lady  may  be  somewhere  in  the  house,"  somebody 
had  suggested.     "  Who  knows?    Let  us  try." 

So  they  tried,  and  utterly  failed,  of  course. 

Morning  came  at  last.  To  the  household  at  Kingsland 
that  night  of  horror  seemed  a  century  long.  Dull  and 
dreary  it  came,  drenched  in  rain,  the  wind  wailing  deso- 
lately over  the  dark,  complaining  sea.  All  was  confusion, 
not  only  at  the  Court,  but  throughout  the  whole  villa!^e. 
The  terrible  news  had  flown  like  wild-fire,  electrifying  all. 
People  stood  and  stared  at  each  other  in  mute  horror. 
My  lady  was  murdered!    Who  had  done  the  deed? 

Very  early  in  the  wet  and  dismal  morning.  Miss  Silver, 
braving  the  elements,  wended  her  way  to  the  Blue  Bell  Inn. 

Where  was  Mr.  Parmalee?  Gone,  the  landlady  said, 
and  gone  for  good,  nobody  knew  where. 

Sybilla  stood  and  stared  at  her  incredulously.  Gone, 
and  without  a  word  to  her — gone  without  seeing  the  mur- 
dered woman!    What  did  it  mean? 

*'  Are  you  sure  he  has  really  gone?"  she  asked.  **  And 
how  did  he  go?" 

"  Sure  as  sure!"  was  the  landlady's  response;  **  which 
he  paid  his  bill  to  the  last  farthing,  like  a  gentleman.  And 
as  lor  how  he  went,  I  am  sure  I  can't  say,  not  being  took 
in  his  confidence;  but  the  elderly  party,  she  went  with  him, 
and  it  was  late  last  evening. ' ' 

Miss  Silver  was  non^used,  perplexed^  bewildered,  and 


210 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


IVH5 


•1    i    11 


i!  i 


verj  anxious.  Whatdid  Mr.  Purmuloomeuu''  Where  bad 
lie  gone?  Ho  might  spoil  all  yut.  Siio  liud  corno  to  boo 
him,  and  accuso  him  of  the  murder — to  frighten  him,  and 
maiio  him  lly  tiio  village.  CirciimatanceK  were  strongly 
against  him — his  knowledge  of  her  secret;  his  noeturnai 
appointment;  her  disappearance.  Sybilhi  did  not  doubt 
but  that  he  would  consider  discretion  the  better  part  of 
Talor,  and  lly. 

{She  went  back  to  the  house,  intensely  perj)lexed.  There 
the  confusion  was  at  its  height.  The  scubbard  had  boo* 
found  near  the  terrace,  with  the  baronet's  initials  thereon. 

Men  looked  into  each  other's  blank  faces,  afraid  to  speak 
H»o  frightful  thoughts  that  filled  their  minds. 

And  in  his  room  Sir  Everard  lay  in  a  deo])  stupor — it 
was  not  sleep.  Sybilla,  upon  the  the  lirst  faint  signs  of 
•onsciousness,  had  administered  a  powerful  opiate. 

'*  He  must  sleep,"  she  said,  resolutely,  to  Edwards. 
**  It  may  save  his  life  and  his  reason.  He  is  utterly  wora 
©ut,  and  every  nerve  in  his  body  is  strung  to  its  utmost 
tension.     Let  him  sleep,  poor  fellow!" 

Did  one  pang  of  human  pity,  of  womanly  compassioa, 
pierce  that  llinty  heart  for  an  instant  as  she  gazed  upon 
Jier  work? 

He  lay  before  her  so  death-like,  so  ghastly,  so  haggard, 
that  the  stoniest  enemy  might  have  relented — the  pallid 
■hadow  of  the  handsome,  happy  bridegroom  of  two  short 
months  ago. 

"  I  have  kept  my  oath,"  she  thought.  '*  I  have  wreaked 
the  vengeance  I  have  sworn.  If  1  left  him  forever  now, 
the  manes  of  Zenith  the  gypsy  might  rest  appeased.  But 
the  astrologer's  prediction — ah!  the  work  must  goon  to 
the  appalling  end." 

She  hardened  her  heart  resolutely,  and  went  away  to 
mingle  with  the  agitated  household,  and  assist  in  the 
search. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  arrived  Lady  Kingsland  and  Mil- 
dred, in  a  frighiiul  state  of  excitement  and  horror.  Har- 
riet murdered!  The  tragic  story  had  been  whispered 
through  The  Grange  until  it  reached  their  ears,  thrillkig 
them  to  the  core  of  their  hearts  with  terror. 

Miss  Silver  met  them — calm,  grave,  inscrutable. 
I  am  afraid  it  is  true,"  she  said,  "  awfully  incrediiaio 


t( 


Tin:   i'akonkt's  intTnn, 


211 


OM  H  scorns.  Sir  JOverunl  fuiiitoil  stono-iltuwl,  my  lady,  at 
ai<^l»t  of  tho  blood  upon  tho  torauo." 

Sim  ahiiildt'ivd  n-i  yho  8p  ko,  uml  Liuly  Kingalmul  cov- 
ered luM"  face  in  liorror. 

*'  (h'o.it  huiivenyl  it  id  honiblcl  'iMiat  unt'oi'tiuiuto  ii'irl. 
Auil  my  soil,  Svbillii,  wlioro  h  I113?" 

*'  Adlecp  in  his  rt'Oin,  my  l.idv.  I  udinijiistorcd  nw 
opiiitc.  His  \oyv  life,  I  think,  d;'jK'm1od  f.n  it.  Ho  mII! 
not  jiwuk'j  i')i-  aouic  l»  'ury.  Do  nrt  di.stiiib  him.  Will 
you  como  up  to  your  oM  rooma  uiul  removu  your  thingti?" 

Thi\y  r'>llowod  her.  'Vhoy  luul  conio  to  .stay  until  tiiu  uii- 
emiurablo  Eurfponso  was  eudcd — to  tako  caro  of  tho  son  and 
brot  hvA'. 

Lady  Kiiiij^dliind  wruiifr  lior  IuituIb  in  a  paroxysm  of  moi- 
tal  anpjui.sh  in  I  ho  Holiuulo  of  her  own  room. 

*' Oh,  my  (hull"  sho  ciiod,  "hivo  nuTcy  and  sparel 
My  son,  my  son,  my  son!  Would  (J.id  I  might  diu  to  sava 
you  from  tho  wort'ij  h  '.iTuis  to  come!" 

All  that  dar,  all  tho  noxt,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
the  fruiilosa  search  for  the  murdered  bride  was  made.  All 
in  vain;  not  tho  faintest  trace  win*  to  he  obtained. 

Sir  Everani,  rousing  himself  from  his  Ktupor  of  despair, 
threw  hiniKolf  body  and  soul  into  the  search,  with  a  lierco 
cnorgv  that  i)erliap3  eavod  him  from  going  mad  with  hor- 
ror and  miserv  and  remorse. 

Mr.  Patmaleu  was  searched  for  high  and  low.  Immenso 
rewards  were  oU'ered  for  tho  slightest  trace  of  him — im- 
mense rowanls  were  (llered  for  the  body  of  the  murdered 
woman.     In  vain,  ir  vain! 

Had  the  earth  opened  ard  swallowed  them  up,  Mr. 
Parmaleo  and  the  baronet's  lost  biido  could  not  more  com- 
pletely  have  vanish*  d. 

And,  meanv.'hile,  d.irk,  ominous  whispers  rose  and  cir- 
culated from  mouth  to  mouth,  by  whom  originated  no  one 
knew.  Sir  Everard's  franiu;  jealousy  of  Mr.  Earmalee,  his 
onslaught  in  tho  pictuie-giillery,  tho  threats  he  had  used 
again  and  again,  overheard  by  so  mmy,  the  oath  he  had 
sworn  to  tako  her  life  if  she  ever  met  the  American  artisfc 
again,  his  ominrur,  conduct  that  nigh!,  Iw's  rushing  like  a 
madman  to  th(^  place  of  tr}  st,  his  returning  covered  with 
blood — white,  wild,  like  one  insane.  Then  the  finding  of 
the  scabbard,  marked  with  his  inilitds,  and  his  own  words: 

'*  Blood!     Good  (v i/d!  i'.  is  hers;     She  is  murdered!" 


1.1 


)i2 


Tin:    I!.\i;<»m;t  s    iii;ii)i:. 


mil 

km 


Thn  wlii.JpriH  roKo  ami  f;rrw  IoikIim-  iiii"!  Iniitlor;  men 
loiikod  in  (liiik  8H.s]>ici(»M  u[>"ii  llin  V'Mim;;"  lord  ol'  Kiii^'s- 
Iiunl,  jiiid  sliriiiik  l'r(>iu  liiiii  pulpubly.  Uiil  us  yt'l.  no  oiiu 
wiM  found  to  ()[vjnly  ucc^uso  liini. 

'.rowiird  tlio  (!lf)8i)  of  tlio  s(M.'.f)nd  wcnk,  a  body  wuh  w.wliod 
aalioro,  saino  miles  down  tlio  cousl,  and  the  uutlioriLiiiH 
tli(Mo  siL,Miili(Hl  lo  \\w  uuthoritius  ol*  Worrel  tliut  tho  corpw 
iniiJ^hL  1)1!  tho  tnisHiiij;  ludy. 

Sir  i'lviTiird,  his  inr»lhcr,  and  Mii-'s  Silver  wont  at  once. 
Jhit  the  8if;;ht  WJia  too  honiblo  to  ])o  twico  looked  at.  I'lvory 
giirniont  had  bi-on  washed  away,  and  tho  J'aoo  and  head 
were  BO  mid:ilatcd  that  identiilcuticii  by  iuean>s  of  tho 
I'oaturoa  wa3  impossible. 

lint  tho  height  correspnnded,  and  ho  did  the  lont,^  wavca 
of  llowing  hair,  and  Sybilla  Silver,  tlio  oidyono  with  norvo 
enou;i;h  to  glance  again,  })r(>noimecd  it  emphatically  to  bo 
the  body  of  Jlarriet,  Lady  Kingsland. 

Thoro  was  to  boa  verdict,  and  tho  trio  remained;  and 
bivto.ie  it  commenced,  tho  celcbra.t,cd  deled ive  from  Scot- 
land Yard,  emplo3'ed  from  iho  llr«t  by  Sir  Everaid,  a]»- 
peared  upon  the  scene  with  crushing  new.-'.  ]Io  held  up  a 
bh'od-atained  dagger,  of  curious  make  and  workmanshij), 
before  the  eye  of  the  baronet. 

"  Do  you  know  this  little  weapon,  Sir  Mverard?'' 

Sir  Everard  looked  at  it  juid  recgnized  it  at  once. 

''  It  is  mine,"  he  replied.  "  I  iturchased  it  last  year  in 
Paris.     My  initials  arc  u])on  it." 

"  So  1  t^ee,"  was  the  dry  response. 

**  llow  comes  it  hero?     Where  did  you  find  it?" 

The  detective  eyed  him  narrowly,  almosit  amazed  at  hU 
coolness, 

"  I  found  it  in  a  very  (|ucer  place.  Sir  J^vorard — lodgr-d 
in  the  branches  of  an  elm-tree,  not  far  frtm  the  stone  ti'i- 
race.  It's  a  miracle  it  was  ever  f  "und.  I  think  this  lilLl.i 
weapon  did  the  deed.    I'Jl  go  and  have  a  look  at  the  body.^' 

lie  went.  Yes,  there  in  the  region  of  tlie  heart  was  a 
gaping  wound.  Jjut  the  sea  had  op(3ned  it,  and  tho  ilesli 
was  so  gnawed  ii.way  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  tell 
whether  the  death-blow  had  been  given  by  that  slender 
knife. 

The  inquest  came  on;  tho  facts  came  out — mysteriously 
wliispered  before,  spoken  aloud  now.     And  for  the  first 


Tin:   r.Ai;()Ni;Ts    i.i:ii»t:. 


213 


.t:I  ii.nl 


tiino  llif  IriilJi  (Liwiud  <iii  tlio  sliiimcd  Iwiroiiet — lio  was 
aii.spocU'il  of  llio  imiitliT  of  tlio  \\\Ui  liu  lovod! 

'IMio  rovoUiiii^f  atrtM^il.y,  llio  iiiitmUinil  liDiTor  of  tli(i 
cliar'^^o,  Tinrvcul  him  iu\  notliiii^  elso  coiilil  liavo  tloiie.  lli.s 
]talo,  proud  I'auo  f^'row  rigid  as  stom;;  his  hliii;  vyva  llat-hud 
Ht-oiuriil  do(i;i.ii(;o;  hi.s  head  n;ared  itsoU'  hauifiitilv  ah'ft. 
\\i>\v  d.'im  (lioy  a(!«!ii;-ii  liiiii  of  sd  iiK-nytroiiH  a  criiiio*:' 

l»ut  tho  ciicimiHtanlial  ovidi-Mco  was  crushing.  S}hilia 
i'SiIv(  r's  evidcuico  uh>iai  wonki  liavo  dmiiiu'd  him. 

Sho  gavo  it  wiUi  ovidoiiL  rt'liiclancr;  huL  givu  it  slm  did 
M'lth  frightful  for»!e,  and  tlio  hoioaved  y.^uiig  liush;iiiil  stood 
sluiinc'd  at  the  tnrrihio  strength  of  the  ca-i;  sho  m:ide  ouf. 

I'lvorythlng  tohl  against  him.  Jlis  vi'ry  cagcrnivsH  to  limi 
tho  murderer  seemed  hut  throwing  du;t  in  Ihtjireyts.  IS'ot 
a  doid)t  lingered  in  the  minds  of  the  coronru-  or  his  jiny, 
and  hefore  simset  tliiit  day  Sir  Mverard  Kingshuid  was  en 
Ids  way  to  Worr(d  .fail  to  s(and  id.i  trial  at  the  (Ktmiiig 
assizes  for  tho  willful  murder  of  Harriet,  his  wife. 


CIIArTEU  A'XX. 

MIRR   SIJ.VKli   ON    OATir. 

The  day  of  trial  came.     Tjr>ng,  miscrahlo  weeks  cf  wait 
ing — weeks  of  anguish  ajid  remorse  and  despair  had  gnnc. 
heforo,  and  Sir  Everaril   Kingsland  emerged  from  his  cell 
to  take  Ids  jilace  in  tho  criminal  dock  and  ho  tried  for  his 
life  for  the  greatest  crime  man  can  commit. 

What  he  had  endured  in  those  weeks  of  anguish  (lod  and 
himself  only  knew.  Outwardly  those  who  saw  him  heheld 
a  rigid,  death-like  face,  with  lines  plowed  deep,  that  half  a 
century  of  happiness  could  never  remove. 

I>ut  he  came  of  a  proud  and  daring  race,  and  hia  harid- 
somo  head  reared  itself  aloft,  and  his  great.  Hashing  hluo 
r'M's  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  his  fellow-uieu,  as 
■_juilt  never  looked  in  this  world. 

The  court-house  was  crowded  to  suiTooatiun — there  was 
not  even  standing  room.  The  long  gidlery  was  one  living 
semicircle  of  eyes;  ladies,  in  gleaniing  silks  and  lluttering 
plumes,  thronged  as  to  the  0[)era,  and  slender  throats  were 
craned,  and  bright  eyes  glanced  eagerly  to  catch  one  fleet- 
ing glimpse  of  tlio  pale  prisoner — a  haronet  who  had  mur- 
dered his  bride  before  tin.'  honey-moon  was  well  over. 


i 


■ 


r. 


|i|'- 


»; 


ii  I 

1 1 


'^ii 


THE    BARONET  S    BRIDB. 


And  away  in  Kingsland  Court  two  ghastly  white  women 
kadt  in  agonised  supplication  for  the  son  and  brother 
fekey  loved. 

The  case  was  opened  in  a  long  and  eloquent  speech  by 
the  counsel  for  the  crown,  setting  forth  the  enormity  of 
the  crime,  citing  a  hundred  incidents  of  the  horrible  and 
unnatural  deeds  jealousy  had  made  men  commit,  from  the 
days  of  the  first  murderer. 

His  address  was  listened  to  in  profoundest  silence.  The 
(Aiarge  he  made  out  was  a  terribly  strong  one,  and  when 
he  sat  down  and  the  first  witness  was  called  the  hearts  of 
Sir  Everard  Kingsland 's  friends  sunk  like  lead. 

He  pleaded  *'  Not  guilty!**  with  an  eye  that  flashed  and 
a  voice  which  rang,  and  a  look  in  his  pale,  proud  face  that 
no  murderer's  face  ever  wore  on  this  earth,  and  with  thos« 
two  words  he  had  carried  conviction  to  many  a  doubter. 

But  men  wavered  like  reeds.  His  word  was  poor  and 
weak  against  the  thrilling  eloquence  of  one  of  the  first 
wriminal  lawyers  in  the  realm. 

•' Call  Sybilla  Silver." 

All  in  black — in  trailing  crape  and  sables,  tall,  stately, 
and  dignified  as  a  young  duchess — Sybilla  Silver  obeyed 
the  call. 

She  was  deeply  veiled  at  first,  and  when  she  threw  back 
the  heavy  black  veil,  and  the  dark,  bright,  beautiful  face 
looked  full  at  judge  and  jury,  a  low  murmur  thrilled 
through  the  throng. 

Those  who  saw  her  for  the  first  time  stared  in  wonder 
aad  admiration  at  the  tall  young  woman  in  black,  with  the 
face  and  air  of  an  Indian  queen,  and  those  to  whom  she 
was  known  thought  that  Miss  Silver  had  never,  since  they 
saw  her  first,  looked  half  as  handsome  as  she  did  this  day. 

Her  brilliant  bloom  of  color  was  gone;  she  was  interest- 
singly  pale,  and  her  great  black  eyes  were  unnaturally  deep 
and  mournful. 

**  Your  name  is  Sybilla  Silver,  and  you  reside  at  Kings- 
land  Court.  May  we  ask  in  what  character — as  friend  or 
domestic?** 

**  As  both.  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  has  been  my  friend 
atd  benefactor  from  the  first.  1  have  been  treated  as  a 
confidential  friend  both  by  him  and  his  mother." 

•*  By  the  deceased  Lady  Kingsland  also,  I  conclude?*' 

"  I  was  m.  the  late  Ladv  Kin^»iaiid*s  coufideuoe— yes.'^' 


THE    BAROKEl'8    BKIDB. 


au 


**  Yon  were  the  last  who  saw  her  alive  on  the  night  of 
Ifaroh  tenth — the  night  of  the  murder?'* 

**Iwas.'' 

*'  Where  did  you  part  from  her?" 

**  At  her  own  chamber  door.  We  bade  eadi  other  good- 
night, and  I  retired  to  rest  immediately." 

"  What  hour  was  that?" 

**  About  ten  minutes  before  eleven." 

"  What  communication  were  you  making  to  Lady  Kingi- 
land  at  that  hour?" 

*'  I  came  to  tell  her  the  household  had  all  retired — that 
she  could  quit  iihe  house  unobserved  whenever  she  chose. " 

**  You  knew,  then,  that  she  had  an  assignation  for  that 
night?" 

*'  1  did.  It  was  I  who  brought  her  the  message,  ^e 
was  to  meet  Mr.  Parmalee  at  midnight,  on  the  stone  ter- 


yf 


^' 


race. 

"  Who  was  this  Mr.  Parmalee?" 

**  An  American  gentleman — a  traveling  photogr&pUo 
artist,  between  whom  and  my  lady  a  secret  existed.'* 

**  A  secret  unknown  to  her  husband?" 

"Yes." 

**  And  this  secret  was  the  cause  of  their  mysterious  mid- 
nigh^-  meeting?" 

**  It  was.  Mr.  Parmalee  dare  not  come  to  the  house. 
Sir  Everard  had  driven  him  forth  with  blows  and  abuse, 
and  forbidden  him  to  enter  the  grounds.  My  lady  kne^ 
this,  and  was  forced  to  meet  him  by  stealth." 

**  Where  was  Sir  Everard  on  this  night?" 

*'  At  a  military  dinner  given  by  Major  Morrell,  here  in 
Worrel." 

**  What  time  did  he  return  to  Kingsland  Court?" 

•*  At  half  past  eleven,  as  nearly  a"  I  can  judge.  1  did 
i>iot  see  him  for  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  after;  then 
Claudine,  my  lady's  maid,  came  and  aroused  me — said  Sir 
Everard  was  in  my  lady's  dressing-room  and  wished  to  see 
me  at  once." 

**  You  went?" 

**  I  went  immediately.  I  found  Sir  Everard  in  a  state 
of  passionate  fury  no  words  can  describe.  By  some  means 
he  Lad  learned  of  the  assignation;  through  an  anonymous 
note  left  upon  his  dressing-table,  he  said. 

**  Did  you  see  this  nofce?^ 


' 


t 


1 


iM  I; 


■;i 


1 1 


216 


THE    BAKONETS    BKIDE. 


"  I  did  not. 


He  had  none  in  his  hand,  nor  have  1  seen 
any  smoe. '* 

**  What  did  the  prisoner  say  to  you?" 

*'  He  asked  me  where  was  his  wife — ho  insisted  that  1 
knew.  He  demanded  an  answer  in  such  a  way  I  dared  not 
disobey. " 

"  You  told  him?" 

**  I  did.  '  Is  she  with  him  !'  he  said,  grasping  my  arm, 
and  I  answered,  *  Yes.  *  " 

"And  then?" 

"  He  asked  me,  '  Where?'  and  I  told  him;  and  he  flung 
me  from  him,  like  a  madman,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house, 
swearing,  in  an  awful  voice,  '  I'll  have  their  hearts' 
bloodl' " 

*'  Was  it  the  first  time  you  ever  heard  him  threaten  liis 
wife's  life?" 

"  No;  the  second.  Once  before  1  heard  him  siiy  to  her, 
at  the  close  of  a  dreadful  quarrel,  '  If  ever  you  meet  that 
man  again,  I'll  murder  you,  by  the  living  Lord!'  " 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  the  quarrel?" 

*'  She  had  met  Mr.  Parmalee,  by  night  and  by  stealth, 
m  Sir  Everard's  absence,  in  tlie  IBeech  Walk. " 

'*  And  he  discovered  it?" 

**  He  did.  Edwards,  his  valet,  had  gone  out  with  mo 
to  look  for  some  article  I  had  lost,  and  by  chance  wc  came 
upon  them.  We  saw  her  give  him  money;  we  saw  her 
dreadfully  frightened;  and  when  Edwards  met  his  master 
again  his  face  betrayed  him — we  had  to  tell  him  all." 

*'  Did  any  one  hear  the  prisoner  use  those  words,  *  I'll 
have  their  hearts'  blood!'  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  but 
yourself?" 

"  Yes;  Edwards,  his  valet,  and  Claudihe,  the  lady's- 
maid.  We  crouched  together  in  the  hall,  frightened 
almost  to  death. " 

"  When  did  the  prisoner  reappear?" 

*'  In  little  over  half  an  hour.  He  rushed  in  in  the  same 
wild  way  he  had  rushed  out — like  a  man  gone  mad." 

"  What  did  he  say?" 

**  He  shouted,  '  It  is  false — a  false,  devilish  slander! 
(She  is  not  there!'  " 

'' Well-and  then?" 

*'  And  then  Claudine  shrieked  aloud  and  pointed  to  hie 
hands.    They  were  dripping  wif-li  hloodl" 


THE    baronet's    bride. 


217 


i»» 


**  Did  he  attempt  any  exi>lanation?' 

**  Not  then.     His  first  words  were,  as  if  he  spoke  in 

spite  of  himself:  *  Blood!  blood!    Good  God,  it  is  hers! 

Did  he  after- 


She  is  murdered!' " 

**  You  say  he  offered  no  explanation  then. 
ward?" 

**  1  believe  so.  Not  to  me,  but  to  others.  He  said  hi» 
foot  slipped  on  the  stone  terrace,  and  his  hand  splashed  in 
a  230ol  of  something — his  wife's  blood.''' 

"  Can  you  relate  what  followed?" 

**  There  was  the  wildest  confusion.  Claudiue  fainted. 
Sir  Everard  shouted  for  lights  and  men.  '  There  lias  been 
a  horrible  murder  done,'  he  said.  '  Fetch  lights  and  fol- 
low me!'  and  then  we  all  rushed  to  the  stone  terrace." 

"  And  there  you  saw — what?" 

*'  Nothing  but  blood.  It  was  stained  and  clotted  with 
blood  everywhere;  and  so  was  tlie  railing,  as  though  a 
bleeding  body  hiid  been  cast  over  into  tiio  p  u.  On  a  ])ro- 
jecting  spike,  as  thougli  torn  off  in  the  fall,  we  found  my 
lady's  India  scarf." 

'*  You  think,  then,  he  cast  the  body  over  after  the  deed 
was  done?" 

*'  I  am  morally  certain  he  did.  There  was  no  other  way 
of  disjjosing  of  H.  The  tide  was  at  flood,  the  current 
strong,  and  it  was  swept  away  at  once." 

"  What  was  the  prisoner's  conduct  on  the  terrace?'-' 

**  He  fainted  stone-dead  before  he  was  there  five  min- 
utes.    They  had  to  carry  him  lifeless  to  the  house." 

**  Was  it  not  on  that  occasion  the  scabbard  marked  with 
his  initials  was  discovered?" 

"  It  was.  One  of  the  men  picked  it  up.  The  dagger 
hidden  in  the  elm-tree  was  found  by  the  detective  later." 

'*  You  recognized  them  both?  You  had  seen  them  be- 
fore in  the  possession  of  the  prisoner?" 

*'  Often.  He  brought  the  dagger  from  Paris.  It  used 
to  lie  on  his  dressing-table." 

*'  Where  he  said  he  found  the  anonymous  note?" 

"Yes." 

*'  Now,  Miss  Silver,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney, 
**  from  what  you  said  at  the  inquest  and  from  what  you 
have  let  drop  to-day,  I  infer  that  my  lady's  secret  was  no 
secret  to  you.     Am  I  nu:[\t?'* 


'   it 


\ 


1 


i :    ( 
i 


M 


If:  ' 


u 

'It 


f.\ 


I ' 
'' 


218 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


There  was  a  momentary  hesitation — a  rising  flush,  n 
drooping  of  the  brilliant  eyes,  then  Miss  Silver  replied  s 

"Yes." 

"  How  did  yon  learn  it?" 

*'  Mr.  Parmalee  himself  told  me." 

"  You  were  Mr.  Parmalee 's  intimate  friend,  then,  Jl  ap- 
pears?'* 

"Y^-e-a" 

"  Was  he  only  a  friend?  He  was  a  young  man,  and  an 
unmarried  one,  as  I  am  given  to  understand,  and  you, 
Miss  Silver,  are — pardon  my  boldness — a  very  handsome 
young  lady." 

Miss  Silver's  handsome  face  drooped  lower.  She  made 
no  reply. 

"  Answer,  if  you  please,"  blandly  insinuated  the  law- 
yer. "  You  have  given  your  evidence  hitherto  with  most 
wnfeminine  and  admirable  straightforwardness.  Don't  let 
us  have  a  hitch  now.  Was  this  Mr.  Parmalee  a  sukor  «f 
yours?" 

"He  was." 

"  An  accepted  one,  I  take  it?" 

"Y-e-e-s." 

*'  And  you  know  nothing  now  of  his  whereabouts?  That 
is  strange. " 

"It  is  strange,  but  no  less  true  than  strange.  I  have 
never  seen  or  heard  of  Mr.  Parmalee  since  the  af ternoen 
preceding  that  fatal  night." 

"  flov/  did  you  see  him  then?" 

"  Ho  had  been  up  to  London  for  a  couple  of  days  oa. 
business  connected  with  my  lady;  he  had  returned  that 
afternoon  with  another  person;  he  sent  for  mo  to  inform 
my  lady.  I  met  and  spoke  to  him  on  the  street,  just  be- 
yond the  Blue  Bell  Jnn." 

"  What  had  he  to  say  to  you?" 

"  Very  little.  He  told  mc  to  tell  my  lady  to  meet  him 
precisely  at  midnight,  on  the  sii>ne  terrace.  Before  mid- 
night the  murder  was  done.  What  became  of  him,  why 
he  did  not  keep  his  appointment,  1  do  not  know.  Ho  lof*. 
the  inn  very  late,  paid  his  score,  and  has  never  been  Been 
or  heard  of  since. 

"  Had  he  any  interest  in  Lady  Kingsland's  death?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  all  his  interest  lay  in  her  rerajtfDiiig 
alive.    While  she  lived,  he  held  a  secret  which  she  inteodocl 


'i^' 


THE   r,AEONET  R    TIRIDK. 


21? 


ap- 


w  pay  him  well  to  kcop.    Her  death  blights  all  his  pGciiEk- 
nry  pro3i)octs,  and  Mr.  Parrnaleo  loved  money/' 

"  Miss  Silver,  who  was  the  fomaio  who  accompanied  Mr, 
Parmaloo  from  London,  and  who  rpiitted  the  iUue  Bell  Inn 
with  him  late  on  the  night  of  tlie  tenth?" 

Again  Sybilla  hesitatedj  looked  down,  and  seemed  oon- 
fused. 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  is  it?'*  said  she,  ploadinri^ly.  **  I 
had  rather  not  tell.  It—it  is  connected  with  tiie  secret, 
atid  I  am  bound  by  a  promise — " 

"  Which  I  think  we  must  persuade  you  to  bi-eak,**  in- 
terrupted the  debonair  attorney.  "  I  tliink  this  secret  will 
throw  a  light  on  tlie  matter,  and  wo  must  have  it.  Ex> 
treme  cases  require  extreme  measures,  my  dear  yoimg 
lady.  Throw  aside  your  honorable  scruples,  break  your 
promise,  and  tell  us  tiiis  secret  whicli  has  caused  a  mur- 
der." 

Sybilla  Silver  looked  from  judge  to  Jury,  from  counael 
to  counsel,  and  clasped  her  hands. 

**  Bon't  ask  mel  she  cried — "  oh,  pray,  don't  ask  mo 
to  tell  this!" 

"  But  we  must — it  is  essential- 
Silver.     Come,  take  courage.     It 
you  know—the  poor  lady  is  dead, 
into  the  heart  of  it  at  once — tell 
terious  lady  with  Mr.  Parmaleo?" 

The  hour  of  Sybilla's  tri!imph  had  come.  She  lifted  her 
black  eyes,  glittering  with  livid  flame,  and  shot  a  quick, 
sidelong  glance  at  the  prisoner.  Awfully  white,  awfully 
calm,  he  sat  like  a  man  of  stone,  awaiting  to  hear  what 
would  cost  him  his  life. 

"  Who  was  she?"  the  lawyer  repeated. 

Sybilla  turned  toward  him  and  answered,  in  a  voice 
plainly  audible  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  long  room: 

'"  She  called  herself  Mrs.  Denover.  Mr.  Parmalee  called 
her  his  sister.  Both  were  false.  She  was  Captain  Harold 
Hunsden's  divorced  wifcj,  Lady  Kingsland'o  mother,  and  a 
lofifc,  degraded  outca?*'!" 


-we  must  have  it.  Miss 
can  do  no  harm  now. 
And  first—to  plunge 
us  who  was  the  mys- 


m 


■f ' 


)d30 


THE    baronet's    imiDB, 


!      I 


I!    i 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

FOUND  GUILTY. 

There  was  the  silence  of  death.  Men  looked  blankly 
in  each  other's  faces,  then  at  the  prisoner.  With  an 
awfully  corpse-like  face,  and  wild,  dilated  eyes,  ho  sat 
staring  at  the  witness — struck  dumb. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  lawyer.  Even  he,  for  an 
instant,  had  sat  petrified. 

"  This  is  a  very  extraordinary  statement,  Miss  Silver,'' 
he  said.  "  Are  you  quite  certain  of  its  truth?  It  is  an 
understood  thing  that  the  late  Caj)tain  Hunsden  was  a 
widower. ' ' 

"  He  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  It  suited  his  purpose  to 
be  thought  so.  Captain  Hunsden  was  a  very  proud  man. 
It  is  scarcely  likely  he  would  announce  his  bitter  shame  to 
the  world." 

"  And  his  daughter  was  cognizant  of  these  facts?" 

'*  Only  from  the  night  of  her  father's  death.  On  that 
njght  he  revealed  to  her  the  truth,  under  a  solemn  oath  of 
secrecy.  Previous  to  that  she  had  believed  her  mother 
dead.  That  death-bed  oath  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble 
between  Sir  Everard  and  his  wife.  Lady  Kingsland  would 
have  died  rather  than  break  it. " 

She  glanced  again — swift,  keen,  sidelong,  a  glance  of 
diabolical  triumph — at  the  prisoner.  But  he  did  not  see  it 
— he  might  have  been  stone-blind — he  only  heard  the 
words — the  words  that  seemed  burning  to  the  core  of  his 
heart. 

This,  then,  was  the  secret,  and  the  wife  he  had  loved  and 
doubted  and  scorned  had  been  true  to  him  as  truth  itself; 
and  now  he  knew  her  worth  and  purity  and  high  honor 
when  it  was  too  late. 

"  How  came  Mr.  Parmalee  to  be  possessed  of  the  secret? 
Was  he  a  relative?" 

"No.  He  learned  the  story  by  the  merest  accident. 
He  left  New  York  for  England  in  his  professional  capacity 
as  photographic  artist,  on  speculation.  On  board  the 
steamer  was  a  woman — a  steerage  passenger — poor,  ill, 
friendless,  and  alo?ie.  Tie  had  a  kindly  heart,  it  appears, 
under  his  passioji  for  money-making,  and  when  this  worn- 


THE    BAllOA^KT'S    DJUDri:. 


321 


iklv 
an 

sat 


)y 


an --this  Mrs.  Dciiovcr- roll  ill,  ho  nnrKctl  "fidr  n,s  jv  son 
might  Ono  iiij,'ht,  vviien  she  thouglifc  horsclt'  dyiiif;,  sh« 
caliod  hi:>\  to  hiiv  bcd.jjdo  and  told  him  hor  story/' 


rji 


Tho  duad  silence  of  tho  crowded  court-room  seemed  to 
deepen.     Yon  miglit  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

Clear  and  sweet  Sybilla  Silver^s  voice  rang  fi'om  end  to 
end,  each  word  cutting  mercilessly  through  tho  unhap})y 
prisoner's  very  soul. 

"  llor  maiden  name  had  been  Maria  Denover,  and  she 
was  a  native  of.  ISfew  York  City.  At  the  ago  of  eighto<'r. 
an  Engli.sh  ollicer  met  her  while  on  a  visit  to  Niagara,  felt 
desperately  in  love  with  hor,  and  married  her  out  of  jiand. 

"  Even  at  that  early  ago  she  Wiis  utterly  lost  and  aban- 
doned; and  she  only  married  Captain  Hunsden  in  a  tit  of 
?j)i'.(l  desperation  and  rage  because  John  Thorndyke,  her 
lovor,  scornfidly  refused  to  make  her  his  wife. 

"  (Japbain  liunsden  took  her  witli  him  to  Gibraltar, 
where  his  regiment  was  stationed,  serenely  unconscious  of 
his  terrible  disgrace.  One  year  after  a  daughter  was  born, 
but  neither  husband  nor  child  could  win  this  woman  from 
the  jnan  ;'he  passionately  loved,  and  who  had  wronged  her 
beyond  reparation. 

"  She  urged  her  husband  to  take  her  back  to  New  York 
to  see  her  friends;  she  jileaded  with  a  vehemence  he  could 
not  resist,  and  in  an  evil  hour  he  obeyed. 

"  Again  she  met  her  lover.  Three  weeks  after  tho 
wronged  husband  and  all  the  world  knew  the  revolting 
story  of  her  degradation.    She  had  fled  with  Thorndyke.'' 

Sybilla  paused  to  let  her  words  tuko  effect.  Then  she 
Glowly  went  on: 

"  There  was  a  divorce,  of  cours'j;  tho  matter  was  hushed 
np  as  much  as  possible,  for  the  abandoned  woman's  friends 
were  wealthy.  Captain  Hunsden  went  back  to  his  regi- 
ment a  disgraced  and  broken-hearted  man. 

"  Two  years  after  he  sailed  for  England,  but  not  to  re- 
main. How  he  wandered  over  the  world,  his  daughter  ac- 
companying him,  from  that  time  until,  ucjjrly  two  years 
ago,  he  returned  to  Hunsden  Hall,  every  ono  knows.  But 
during  all  that  time  he  never  heard  one  word  of  or  from 
his  lost  wife. 

"  She  remained  with  Thorndyke — half  starved,  brutally 
beaten,  horribly  ill-used — tauntid  from  the  first  by  him, 
and  hated  at  the  last.     But  she  clung  to  him  through  all^ 


: 


222 


THE    IJAIlOiSKIB    LIUDE. 


as  women  do  cliug;  sho  liail  ftivou  up  Iho  uliulo  world  for 
[lis  sako;  alio  must  bear  Im  ubuso  to  the  end.  And  she 
did,  heroically. 

"He  died — etabbod  in  a  drunken  brawl — died  with  her 
kneeling  by  his  side,  and  his  IuhL  word  an  oath.  JIo  died 
and  was  buried,  and  she  was  alouj  in  the  world— heart- 
broken, health-broken — as  miserable  a  woman  as  tiie  W'.Jo 
earth  ever  held. 

"One  wish  alone  lived  and  v  as  stioiig  within  her — to 
look  again  upon  her  child  before  ^i.e  died.  She  had  no 
wish  to  speak  to  her,  to  reveal  hersilf,  only  to  look  once 
more  upon  her  face,  then  lie  down  by  the  road-side  and 
iie. 

"  She  knew  sho  was  mari'itd  and  livii;;.',  luuv;  1'horndyke 
liftd  maliciously  kept  her  an  t'al^  oi'  h.r  liiir^biui;!  and  child. 
Sho  sold  all  she  possessed  but  (he  rii>;s  upon  hir  back,  and 
took  a  steerage  ])assage  for  England. 

"  That  was  the  story  she  told  Mr.  Parmulee.  '  You 
will  go  to  Devonshire,'  she  said  to  liini;  '  you  will  see  my 
child.  Tell  her  I  died  hiinibly  praying  iiri-  forgiveness. 
She  is  rich;  she  will  reward  you.' 

**  Mr.  Parmalee  immediately  made  up  his  mind  that  this 
sick  woman,  who  had  a  daughter  ilie  wii'o  of  a  wealthy 
baroj<iet,  was  a  great  deal  too  valu-dde,  in  a  pecuniary 
lighoj  to  be  allowed  '  to  go  olf  the  hooks,'  as  lie  exjn'essed 
it,  tlkus  easily. 

"  ile  pooh-poohod  tho  notion  of  licr  dyitig,  cheered  her 
np,  narsed  her  assiduously,  and  iinally  brought  iier  around. 
He  loft  her  in  London,  jiostcd  down  lure,  and  remained 
here  until  the  return  of  Sir  J.<]vera.rd  and  my  lady  from 
their  honey-moon  trip.  The  dny  after  he  [utit-ented  him- 
self to  them — displayed  his  piciurey,  and  among  others 
showed  my  lady  her  mother's  portrait,  taken  at  the  time 
of  her  marriage.  She  recognized  it  at  on';e — her  father 
had  left  her  its  counterpart  on  the  night  he  died.  He 
knew  her  secret,  and  she  had  to  meet  him  if  he  chose.  Ho 
threatened  to  tell  Sir  Everard  clhc,  and  the  thought  of  her 
husband  ever  discovering  her  mother's  liliame  was  agony 
to  her.  She  knew  how  [)ioud  he  was,  how  proud  his  moth- 
er was,  and  she  would  hfive  died  to  save  him  pair.  And 
that  is  why  she  met  Mr.  rarmaleo  by  night  and  by  stealth 
— why  she  gave  liim  money — why  all  thti  horrors  that  have 
followed  oucurredo'^ 


THE   baronet's    BRIDE. 


233 


Onoe  more  the  cruol,  clear,  uiifrtlteriup;  voice  paused.  A 
£;roan  broke  tlio  eilouco — u  groan  of  such  unutterable  an- 
guish and  despair  from  the  tortured  husband  tiiat  ovary 
heart  thrilled  to  hear  it. 

With  that  agonized  groan,  his  face  dropped  in  his  hands, 
and  ho  never  raised  it  again,  lie  heard  no  more--he  sat 
bowed,  paralyzed,  criisheil  witli  misery  and  remorse.  His 
wife — his  lost  wife — had  been  as  pure  and  stainless  n^:.  the 
angels,  and  ho— oh,  pitiful  God!  how  merciless  ho  had 
been! 

Sybilla  Silver  was  dismissed ;  other  witnesses  were  ciilled. 
Edwards  and  Claudine  were  the  only  ones  examined  that 
day,  Sybilla  had  occupied  the  court  so  long.  They  cor- 
roborated all  she  had  said.  The  prisoner  was  remanded, 
and  the  court  adjourned. 

The  night  of  agony  which  followed  to  the  wretched  pris- 
oner no  words  can  ever  tell.  All  he  had  sulTored  hitherto 
seemed  as  nothing.  Men  recoiled  in  horror  at  the  ^iglit  of 
him  next  day;  it  was  as  if  a  galvanized  corpse  had  entered 
the  court-room. 

He  sat  in  dumb  misery,  neither  heeding  nor  hearing. 
The  talk  of  witnesses  and  lawyers  was  as  the  empty  babble 
of  a  brook.  Only  once  was  his  attention  dimly  aroused  to 
a  sort  of  wondering  bewilderment.  It  was  at  the  evidence 
ot  a  boy — a  ragged  youth  of  some  fifteen  years,  who  gave 
his  name  as  Bob  Dawson,  and  his  evidence  with  a  very 
white  and  scared  face. 

*'  He  had  been  out  lat3on  that  'ere  night;"  he  admitted 
the  fact  with  grimy  tears.  *'  Yes,  if  his  wurship  must 
know,  a-wirin'  of  rabbits,  which  he  didn't  catch  none,  so 
he  'oped,  their  ludships  wouldn't  send  him  hup  for  it.  It 
was  between  ten  and  eleven — couldn't  be  'spected  to  tell 
to  a  second — that  ho  was  a-dodgin'  round  near  the  stone 
terrace.  Then  he  sees  a  lady  a-waitin*,  which  the  moon 
was  shining  on  her  face,  and  he  knowed  my  lady  herself. 
He  dodged  more  than  hever  at  the  sight,  and  pecked  round 
a  tree.  Just  then  came  along  a  tall  gent  in  a  cloak,  like 
Sir  Everard  wears,  and  my  lady  screeches  out  at  sight  of 
him.  Sir  Everard,  he  spoke  in  a  deep,  'orrid  voice,  and 
the  words  were  so  hawful,  he — Bob  Dawson — remembered 
them  from  that  day  to  this. 

1  sv/ore  by  the  Lord  v/ho  made  me  1  would  murda' 


*(  i 


•i'H 


324 


TIIH    HARONF,T'f«    lUtlDE. 


yon  if  yon  over  met  tlnit  man  a^^jiin.  False  wife,  accurfled 
ti'iiit-orcs.s,  uv'vt  yonr  doom!* 

"  And  iJion  my  huly  scroochos  out  again  unci  says  to  him 
—  hIk!  KiiVH: 

*''IIavu  in(;r(3y!  1  am  innocent,  Iloverard!  Oh,  for 
(Joil'.s  .siikc,  do  not  mnrdor  mo!' 

"  And  Sir  ilovorard,  ho  says,  fierce  and  'orrid: 

"  '  Wiotiih,  die!  You  are  not  lit  to  poHute  the  hearth! 
do  to  your  grave  with  my  'ate  and  my  cussi' 

"  And  then/'  cried  JJob  Dawson,  trembling  all  over  as 
ho  told  it,  "  I  see  him  lift  that  there  knife,  gentlemen, 
and  atal)  her  with  all  his  might,  and  she  fell  back  with  a 
sort  of  groan,  and  he  lifts  her  up  anil  jtitches  of  her  over 
liln'^o  the  soa.  And  then  ho  cuts,  lie  does,  and  1 — I  was 
friglitened  most  hawful,  and  1  cut,  too.'' 

A  murmur  of  horror  ran  through  the  court.  No  ono 
doubted  longer. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  this  before?"  the  judge  asked, 
sternly. 

"  'Cos  I  was  scared — I  was,"  Bob  replied,  in  tears.  "  I 
didn't  knovv  but  that  they  might  took  and  hang  me  for 
seeing  it.  1  told  mammy  the  other  night,  and  mammy 
she  came  and  told  the  gent  there,"  pointing  ono  stubby 
index  finger  at  the  learned  counsel  for  the  crown,  "  and 
he  said  I  must  come  and  tell  it  here;  and  that's  all  I've 
got  to  tell,  and  I'm  werry  sorry  as  hover  I  seed  it,  and  it's 
all  true,  s'help  me!" 

The  lad  was  rigidly  cross-examined,  but  he  stnck  to  his 
statement  with  many  tears  and  protestations. 

Sybilla  Silver's  eyes  fairly  blazed  with  triumphant  fire. 
Iler  master,  the  arch-fiend,  seemed  visibly  coming  to  her 
aid;  And  the  most  miserable  baronet  pressed  his  hand  to 
his  throbbing  head. 

"  Am  1  going  mad?"  he  thought.  '*  Did  1  really  mur- 
der my  wife?" 

There  was  the  summing  up  of  the  evidence — one  damn- 
ing mass  against  the  prisoner.  There  was  the  judge's 
charge  to  the  jury.  Sir  Everard  heard  no  words — saw 
nothing.  He  fell  into  a  stunned  stupor  that  was  indeed 
like  madness. 

The  jury  retired — vaguely  he  saw  them  go.  They  re- 
turned. Was  it  minutes  or  hours  they  had  been  gone? 
11  is  dulled  eyes  'ooked  at  them  expressionless. 


^cursed 
to  him 
)h,  for 

hearth! 

over  as 

lemen, 

with  ii 

lier  over 

— 1  was 

No  one 

;  askei], 

rs.  "I 
me  for 
iiiiimmy 
)  stubby 
I,  "  ami 
all  I've 
ami  it's 

ik  to  his 

ant  fire. 
f  to  her 
haml  to 

lly  mur- 

G  damn- 
judge's 
ds — saw 
,s  indeed 

riiey  ro- 
n  gone? 


THE    HAIIOJSKT  S    UKIDl'), 


225 


**  How  say  you,  goiitlemon  of  the  jury— guilty  or  not 
guilty?" 


Guilty!" 
Amid  (lead  silence 


the  word  fell.     Every  heart  thrilled 


with  awe  but  one.  The  condemned  man  sat  staring  at 
them  with  an  awful,  dull,  glazed  stare. 

The  juilge  arose  and  put  on  liis  black  cap,  his  face 
white,  his  li])3  trembling.  ]Ie  had  known  Sir  Everard 
Kingsland  from  boyhood — a  little  curly-haired,  blue-eyeil, 
Jiandsome  boy.  liut  those  blue  eyes  looked  at  him  now, 
seejug,  yet  sightless — the  dulled  ears  not  taking  in  tho 
«ensu  of  a  syllable. 

Otdy  the  last  words  seemed  to  strike  him — to  crash  into 
his  v/hirling  brain  with  a  noise  like  thunder.  The  long, 
pitying  achlross  was  lost,  but  he  hoard  those  last  words: 

"  And  that  there  you  be  hanged  by  tho  neck  until  dead, 
and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon  your  soul!" 

He  sat  down.  Tho  awful  silence  was  something  indc- 
S(3ribable.  One  or  two  women  in  the  gallery  fainteil,  then 
the  hush  was  broken  in  a  blood-curdling  manner. 

With  the  shriek  of  a  madman,  Sir  Evorard  Kingsland 
threw  up  both  arms  and  fell  face  forward.  They  raised 
him  up.  Agonized  nature  had  given  way — ho  was  writh- 
ing in  the  horrors  of  an  epileptic  fit. 


CHAPTER  XXXH. 

S  Y  B  I  L  L  A  '  S     T  11  I  U  »[  P  H  . 

It  was  the  night  before  the  execution.  In  his  feebly 
lighted  cell  tho  condemned  man  sat  alone,  trying  to  read 
by  the  palely  glimmering  lamp.  Tho  Kew  Testament  lay 
open  before  him,  and  on  this,  the  last  night  of  his  life,  he 
was  reading  the  mournful  story  of  Gethsemane  and  Cal- 
vary. On  his  pale,  high-brod  face  sat  a  look  of  unutter- 
able calm,  of  unearthly  peace.  Earth  and  the  things  of 
the  earth — love,  ambition,  splendor,  and  all  the  glories  of 
the  lower  world— had  rolled  away,  and  eternity,  mighty 
and  inconceivable,  was  opening  before  him.  On  this  last 
night  heart  and  soul  were  at  rest,  and  an  infinite  calm,  that 
seemed  not  of  this  world,  ilJumimid  every  feature. 

Weeks  had  i)assi'il  since  tho  diiy  when  sentence  of  death 
had  been  pronounced  upon  him,  and  the  condemned  man 

8 


X 


2ie6 


TUK    IIAIIONKT'S    lUlIDK 


[I  .if 

lili 


imd  Iain  touHJn^  and  burning'  in  tlic  wild  doliriuni  of  brairi 
lovur.  J)ay8  and  weulvs  lio  luid  luin  hovorinf^  botweon  lifo 
and  (lejitli.  nursuii  witli  .sluojtloss  caro,  lus  iondurly  nour- 
iwht'd  as  if  a  lotj;^'  iil'o  lay  boforo  him. 

Sybilla  Silvor  had  been  his  most  sleepless,  his  most  de- 
voted attendant.  Her  evidence  had  wrung  his  heart — had 
eondenuiL'il  him  to  the  most  shameful  death  man  can  die; 
but  .she  had  only  told  the  truth,  and  truth  is  mighty  and 
will  j»revail.  So  she  came  and  nursed  him  noiv',  for^ettin^ 
to  eat  or  slee})  iu  her  zeul  and  devotioi>,  and  finally  wooed 
him  back  to  life  and  reason,  while  those  who  loved  him  best 
])rayeil  (lod,  by  night  and  by  day,  that  he  might  die. 
Slowly  but  surely  life  returned,  and  he  rose  from  his  bed 
at  last,  the  pallid  shadow  of  liis  former  self,  to  endure  the 
extreme  penalty  of  tlie  law. 

Ihit,  while  hovering  in  tlio  "  Valley  of  the  Shadow/' 
death  had  lost  all  its  terror  for  him — he  rose  a  changed 
man.  A  zealous  clergyman  had  sat  daily  by  his  bedside, 
and  the  light  of  this  world  waxed  ^'ery  dim  as  seen  by  the 
light  of  heaven. 

"  And  she  is  there,'*  lie  said,  with  his  eyes  fixed  dream- 
ily on  the  one  j^ateh  of  blue  May  sky  ho  could  see  between 
his  prison  bars — "  my  wronged,  my  murdered,  my  beloved 
wife  I  Ah,  yes,  death  is  the  highest  boon  the  judges  of 
this  world  can  give  me  now!'* 

And  so  the  last  night  came.  He  sat  alone.  Tho  jailor 
who  was  to  share  his  cell  on  this  last,  awful  vigil  had  been 
bribed  to  leave  him  by  himself  until  the  latest  moment. 

'*  Come  in  before  midnight/'  ho  said,  smiling  slightly, 
*'  and  guard  me  while  I  sleep,  if  you  wish.  Until  then, 
I  should  like  to  be  left  quite  alone.  *' 

And  tho  man  obeyed,  awed  unutterably  by  the  sublimo 
look  of  that  marble  face. 

"  lie  never  did  it,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  No  murderor 
ever  looked  with  such  clear  eyes  and  such  a  sweet  smiie  as 
that.  Sir  Everard  Kingsland  is  as  hinnocent  as  a  hangel, 
and  there'll  be  a  legal  murder  done  to-morrow.  I  wish 
it  was  that  she-devil  that  swore  his  life  away  instead.  I'd 
turn  her  off  myself  with  the  greatest  pleasure." 

As  if  his  thoughts  had  evoked  her,  a  tall  dark  fignro 
stood  before  him — Miss  Sybilla  Silver  herself. 

"Good  Lord!"  cried  the  jailer,  aghast;  '*  wWd  «- 
thomght  it?    What  do  you  want?'^ 


THE    baronet's    DUIPK. 


2t7 


brain 

on  lifo 

nour- 

oat  do- 
t— hull 
an  tlio; 
ity  and 

wooed 
im  best 
ht  die. 
his  bed 
.uro  the 

adow/' 
changed 
bedside, 
1  by  the 

L  dream- 
between 
beloved 
iidges  of 

ho  jailer 
bad  been 
niont. 
slightly, 
itil  then, 

)  subUmo 

murderor 
t  smile  as 
a  hangel, 
r.  I  wish 
«ad.     rd 

irk  figaro 


"To  BOO  the  prifloner,"  responded  the  swroot  voice  ot 
Sybil  la. 

"  Voii  can't  see  hirn,  then,'*  said  the  jailor,  gnittty, 
'*  JIi'  ain't  going  to  see  anyhoily  Miis  iant  night,  ma'am." 

"  Mr.  Markhani  " — sho  cmu)  over  and  laid  her  velvet 
\)i\,\v  on  ills  arm,  and  niugneli/ed  him  wilii  her  big  black 
r-yes — "  think  better  of  it.  It  is  his  last  night,  llis  mother 
lies  on  tiu*  ]toiiit  of  death.  I  come  hero  with  a  last  sacred 
messitge  from  a  dying  mother  to  a  dying  son.  Yoii  have 
ail  aged  mother  yourself,  Mr.  Markham.  Ah!  think 
agjiin,  and  don't  bo  hard  upon  ns." 

A  sovereign  slipped  into  his  j)alm.  Whether  it  was  tho 
delicious  thrill  of  the  gold,  or  tho  magic  of  that  honeyed 
voicic,  oi  the  mesmerism  of  those  velvet-black  eyes,  or  tho 
siren  spell  of  that  beautiful  face,  who  can  toll?  13ut  the 
stern  warden  knocked  under  at  once. 

"  For  only  half  an  hour,  then,"  ho  said;  '*  mind  that 
Como  along!" 

Tho  key  clanked;  tho  door  swung  back.  The  pale 
prisoner  lifted  his  sorono  eyos^  tho  tall,  dark  figure  stepped 
m. 

"Sybilla!" 

*'  Yes,  Sir  Kverard." 

The  ^rcit  (k»or  closed  with  a  bang. 

"  Half  an  hour,  mind,"  reiterated  the  jailer. 

Tho  Key  turned;  they  were  alone  together  within  those 
massive  walls. 

"  1  thought  wo  parted  yesterday  for  the  last  time  in 
this  lower  world,"  said  the  oaronet,  calmly. 

"  Did  you?  You  were  mistaken,  then.  We  meet  again 
and  part  again  forever  to-night,  for  the  last  time  in  this 
lower  world,  or  that  upper  one  either,  in  which  you  be  - 
lievo,  and  which  I  know  to  be  a  very  pretty  little  fable, 
made  for  priests  to  fool  credulous  cowards." 

She  laughed  a  low,  derisive  laugh,  and  came  up  close  to 
him.  He  shut  his  book,  and  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 
Was  this  tho  Sybilla  Silver  he  had  known  for  two  years— 
the  mild  and  submissive  Sybilla? 

Her  black  eyes  were  literally  blazing,  her  swarthy  cheeks 
were  burning  red,  her  whole  dusky  face  irradiated  with  a 
glow  that  might  have  been  borrowed  from  the  infernal  re- 
gions. But  he  sat  and  looked  at  her  unmoved — only  won- 
derkig. 


I 


r>!i{8 


THK    baronet's    imiDE. 


■i .  I 


il;,    .')f     V 


"  WIml,  <lo  vou  mean?     Wliy  have  you  oomii  hither  to- 
night-'    Why  iU)  you  look  like  tliut?     What  is  it  all?'' 
"It  is  this!"     Siic  iliinjr  up  licr  unns  with  a  strange, 


wild  iii.^sture. 


Thiit  tlio  mask  worn  two 


long 


years  is 


jib'^iit  to  be  torn  oIL  It  moans  tliat  you  are  to  liear  the 
truth;  it  means  that  the  ]Hirpoao  of  my  lii'e  is  fullilled;  it 
means  tiiat  the  hour  of  my  triumph  has  come." 

lie  sat  and  looked  at  her,  lost  in  wonder. 

*'  You  do  not  speak — you  sit  and  stare  as  though  you 
could  not  believe  your  eyea  or  ears.  It  is  hard  to  believe, 
I  know — the  humble,  the  meek  Sybilla  metamorphosed 
thus.  But  the  Sybilla  Silver  you  knew  vras  a  mockery  and 
a  delusion.  Behold  the  real  one,  for  the  first  time  in  your 
life!" 

"  Woman,  who  arc  you?    What  arc  you?" 

*'  I  am  the  granddaughter  of  Zenith  the  gypsy,  the 
woman  your  father  wronged  to  the  death,  and  your  bitter- 
est enemy.  Sir  Everard  Kingsland!" 

He  gazed  at  her,  speechless — struck  dumb. 

"  The  granddaughter  of  Zenith  tlie  gypsy?"  he  re- 
peated, in  bewilderment.  "  Then  Sybilla  Silver  is  not 
your  name?" 

*'  The  name  is  as  false  as  the  cliaracter  in  which  she 
showetl  lierself — that  of  vour  friend." 

*'  And  yet,"  the  young  man  said,  in  a  tone  infinitely  ten- 
der, "  the  first  time  we  met  you  saved  my  life." 

*'  No  thanks  for  that.  I  did  not  know  yoii^  tfiough  if  I 
had  1  would  have  saved  it,  all  the  same.  That  was  not 
the  death  you  were  to  die.     ]  saved  you  for  the  gallows. " 

''  Sybilla,  Sybilla!" 

*'  I  saved  you  for  the  gallows!"  she  fiercely  repeated. 
'*  I  come  here  to-night  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  you  shall 
hear  it.  Did  I  not  swear  your  life  away?  Did  I  not  nurse 
you  back  from  the  very  jaws  of  death?  All  for  what? 
That  the  astrologer's  prediction  might  be  fulfilled — that 
the  heir  of  Kingsland  Court  might  die  a  felon's  death  on 
the  scaffold!" 

"  The  astrologer's  pretlicticn?"  he  cried,  catching  some 
of  her  excitement.     "  What  do  yor.  know  about  that?" 

*'  Everything — everything!"  she  exclaimed,  exultingly. 
**  Far  more  than  you  do,  for  you  only  know  such  a  thing 
exists — you  know  nothing  of  its  contents.  Oh,  no!  mamma 
guarded  her  darlhig  boy  too  caretully  for  that,  notwith' 


IHE    BAKONET'S    bride. 


239 


ther  to- 

years  is 
liL'ar  tliu 
iilled;  it 


iigh  you 
believe, 
or[>hose(l 
kcry  Hiid 
0  in  your 


ypsy,  tho 
ur  bittor- 


"   he  re- 
er   is  not 

wliich  she 

initely  ten- 

■houpjh  if  I 
it  was  not 


l^allows. 


)) 


r  repeated. 
1  you  shall 
[  not  nurnc 
for  what? 
1  lied— that 
's  death  on 

ching  some 
;  that?" 
exultingly. 
ch  a  thing 
o!  mamma 
kt,  notwith- 


standing your  dying  father's  command.  But  in  spite  of 
her  it  has  come  true — thanks  to  your  protegee,  Sybilla 
Silver." 

"  What  was  the  astrologer's  prediction — that  terrible 
prediction  that  shortened  my  father's  life?" 

"  It  was  this — that  his  only  son  and  heir,  born  on  that 
night,  would  die  by  the  hand  of  the  common  hangman,  a 
murderer's  death  on  the  scaffold.  Enough  to  blight  any 
father's  life  who  believed  in  it,  was  it  not?" 

"  It  was  devilish.  My  poor  father!  Tell  mo  the  name 
of  the  fiend  incarnate  who  could  do  so  diabolical  a  deed, 
for  you  know?" 

"  I  do.     That  man  was  my  father/' 

*'  Your  father?" 

"  Ay,  Aohmet  the  Astrologer.  Ila!  ha!  As  much  an 
astrologer  as  you  or  I.  It  was  his  part  of  our  vengeance — 
my  part  was  to  see  it  carried  out.  I  swore,  by  my  dying 
mother's  bedside,  to  devote  my  life  to  that  purpose.  Have 
I  no*  kept  my  oath?" 

She  folded  her  arms  and  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of 
such  devilish  malignity  that  words  are  poor  and  weak  to 
describe  it.     He  recoiled  from  her  as  from  a  visible  demon. 

"  For  God's  sake,  go!  You  bring  a  breath  of  hell  into 
this  prison.  Go — go!  You  have  done  your  master's  work. 
Leave  me!" 

"  Not  yet;  you  have  heard  but  half  the  truth.  Oh,  po- 
tent Prince  of  Kingsland,  hear  me  out!  You  will  be 
hanged  to-morrow  morning  for  murdering  your  wife!  You 
didn't  mu/der  her,  did  you?    Who  do  you  suppose  did  it?" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  staggered  back  iigainst  the  wall,  his 
eyes  starting  from  their  sockets. 

"Great  God!" 

He  could  say  no  more,  Tiie  awful  truth  burst  upon 
him  and  struck  him  speochless. 

'*  Ah,  you  anticipate,  I  see.  Yes,  my  lord  of  Kings- 
land,  1  muidered  your  pretty  little  wife!  Keep  off!  I 
have  a  pistol  here,  a;id  I'll  blow  your  brains  out  if  you 
come  one  step  nearer — if  you  utter  a  word!  I  don't  want 
to  cheat  Jack  Ketch,  if  I  can.  And  it  is  no  use  your  cry- 
ing for  holij— tluire  is  no  one  to  hear,  and  these  stone  walls 
are  thick.  Stand  tlKsre,,  my  rich,  my  noble,  my  princely 
brother,  and  listen  to  the  iruth. ' 


S30 


THE    EARONET'S    BRIDE. 


H'.  li. 


He  stood,  holding  by  the  wall,  paralyzed,  frozen  with 
horror,  lie  knew  all,  as  surely  as  if  he  had  seen  the  hor- 
rid tragedy. 

"  Yes,  I  murdered  her  I"  Sybilla  reiterated,  with  sneer- 
ing triumph.  "  Disf^uised  in  3'our  clothes,  using  your 
dagger;  and  she  died,  bolieving  it  to  be  you.  All  1  told, 
and  all  ilie  boy  Dawson  told  at  th*  trial  was  true  as  the 
Heaven  you  believe  in.  Your  wife  was  true  as  truth, 
pure  as  the  angels.  She  loved  only  you — she  loved  you 
with  her  whole  heart  and  soul.  Her  vow  by  the  l>edside 
of  her  dying  father  chained  her  tongue.  To  save  yoa  the 
shame,  the  humiliation  of  learning  the  truth  about  her  de- 
graded mother,  she  m^t  in  secret  this  Mr.  Parmalee.  On 
that  night  she  went  to  the  stone  terrace  to  see  her  mother, 
for  the  lirst,  the  last,  the  only  time.  I  arranged  it  all — I 
lured  her  there — I  stabbed  her,  and  flung  her  over  into  the 
sea!  I  hated  her  for  your  sake — 1  hated  her  for  her  own. 
And  to-morrow,  for  my  crime,  you  will  die!'* 

And  still  he  gazed,  paralyzed,  stunned,  motionless, 
speechless.  Before  him  the  woman  stood,  drawn  np  to 
her  full  height,  looking  at  him  with  blazing  eyes,  a  fitting- 
mate  for  the  prince  of  devils  himself. 

"  Poor  fool!'*  she  said,  with  unutterable  scorn — *'  poor, 
blind,  besotted  fool!  and  this  is  the  end  of  all!  "Youpg, 
handsome,  rich,  high-born,  surrounded  by  friends,  the 
wealthy  and  the  great,  one  woman's  work  brings  yon  to 
this!  I  have  said  my  say,  and  now  I  leave  you;  here  we 
part.  Sir  Everard  Kingsland.  Call  the  jailer;  tell  him 
what  I  have  told  you — tell  it  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  if  you  choose.  Not  one  will  believe  you. 
It  is  an  utterly  mad  and  impossible  tale.  I  have  only  to 
calmly  and  scornf  ull;/  deny  it.  And  to-morrow,  when  the 
glorious  sun  rises — tlie  sun  you  will  never  see — I  will  be  far 
away.  In  Spain,  the  land  of  my  mother  and  my  grand- 
mother, I  go  to  join  our  race — to  become  a  dweller  in  tents 
—a  gypsy,  free  as  the  wind  that  blows.  The  gold  your 
lavish  hand  has  given  me  will  make  me  and  my  tribe  rich 
for  life.  I  go  to  be  their  queen.  Farewell,  Sir  Everard 
Kingsland.  My  half  hour  has  expired;  the  jailer  comes 
to  let  me  out.  Bul  first  I  go  straight  from  here  to 
Kingsland  Court,  to  tell  your  mother  what  I  have  just 
told  you — to  tell  her  her  idolized  son  dies  for  my  crime, 
and  to  kill  her,  if  I  can,  with  the  nows.     Once  more,  fare- 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


331 


well,  and  bon  voyage  to  you,  my  haughty  young  baronet, 
the  last  of  an  accursed  race!*' 

Tho  door  swung  open — Miss  Silver  flitted  out.  It  broke 
the  si)ell.  The  prisoner  started  forward,  tried  hoarsely, 
vainly  to  speak.  Enfeebled  by  lojig  illness,  by  repeated 
shocks,  he  staggered  a  pace  or  two  and  fell  face  forward 
at  the  jailer's  feet  like:  a  log. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BETWEEN   LIFE  AND   DEATH. 

And  while  Sir  Everard  Kiugsland  lay  in  his  felon's  qqH, 
doomed  to  die,  where  was  she  for  whose  murder  he  was  to 
give  his  life?  Really  murdered?  Is  there  any  one  above 
the  artless  and  unsuspecting  age  of  six,  who  reads  this 
story,  does  not  know  beffer? 

Harriet — Lady  Kingsland — was  not  dead.  Hundreds  of 
miles  of  sea  and  land  rolled  between  her  and  Kingsland 
Court,  and  in  a  stately  New  York  mansion  she  looked  out 
at  the  sparkling  April  sunshine,  with  life  and  health  beat- 
ing strong  in  her  breast. 

Mr.  George  Washington  Parmalee  had  saved  her  life. 
On  that  tragic  night  of  March  tenth,  he  had  c  uitted  the 
Blue  Bell  with  Mrs.  Denover,  and  descended  at  oice  to  the 
shore,  where  a  boat  from  the  "Angelina  Dobbs  "  was 
awaiting  them. 

The  "  Angelina  "  herself  lay  at  anchor  a  mile  or  two 
away,  ready  to  sail  as  soon  as  her  two  passengers  came 
aboard. 

Mr.  Parmalee  took  the  oars  and  rowed  away  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  park.  The  sickly  glimmer  of  the  moon  showed 
him  the  stone  terrace  and  the  solitary  figure  standing  wait- 
ing  there.  But  the  noise  of  the  wash  on  the  beach  and  the 
sighing  of  the  trees  prevented  Harriet  from  hearing  the  dip 
of  the  sculls.  On  the  sea  the  night  was  so  dark  that  the 
boat  glided  along  unseen. 

He  had  neared  the  spot  and  rowed  softly  along  under  the 
deep  shadow  of  overhanging  trees,  whose  long  arms  trailed 
in  the  waves,  when  he  espied  a  second  figure,  muffted  in  a 
cloak,  emerge  and  confront  the  lady.  He  recognized,  or 
thought  he  recognized,  the  baronet,  and  came  to  a  dead- 
lock, with  a  stilled  impieeulion. 


h 


n 


232 


THE  ];aronet's  bkide. 


:ii  :i- 


til 


"  It's  nil  up  with  tlicm  three  liumlrccl  pouiicls  fchis 
bout/'  he  thought;  "  confound  the  hick!" 

lie  could  not  hear  the  words — the  distance  was  too  groat 
— but  he  could  see  them  plainly.  The  wild  shriek  of  Lady 
Kingsland  would  have  been  echoed  by  her  terrified  mother 
had  not  the  artist  clapped  his  hand  firmly  over  her  mouths 

*'  Darnation!    Dry  up,  can't  you?    Oh,  good  God!" 

He  started  up  in  horror,  nearly  upsetting  the  boat.  Ho 
had  seen  the  fatal  blow  given,  he  saw  the  boily  hurled  over 
the  railing,  and  he  saw  the  face  of  the  murderer! 

A  flash  of  moonlight  shone  full  upon  it  bending  down, 
and  he  recognized,  in  men's  clothes,  the  woman  who  was 
to  be  his  wife. 

A  deadly  sickness  came  over  him.  He  sat  down  in  the 
boat,  feeling  as  though  he  were  going  to  faint.  As  for 
Mrs.  Denover,  she  was  numb  with  utter  horror. 

The  assassin  fled.  As  she  vanished  G.  W.  Parmalee 
looked  up  with  a  hollow  groan,  remained  irresolute  for  an 
instant,  shook  himself,  and  took  up  the  oars. 

"  We  must  pick  uj)  the  body,"  he  said,  in  an  unearthly 
voice.     '*  The  waves  will  wash  it  away  in  five  minutes." 

He  rowed  ashore,  lifted  the  lifeless  form,  carried  it  into 
".he  boat,  and  laid  it  across  the  mother's  knee. 

"  We'll  put  for  the  *  Angelina,'  "  he  observed.  "  If 
there's  any  life  left,  we'll  fetch  her  to  there." 

"  Her  heart  beats,"  said  Mrs.  Henover,  raining  tears  and 
kisses  on  the  cold  face.  "  Oh,  my  child,  my  child!  it  is 
your  wretched  mother  who  has  done  this!" 

They  reached  the  "  Angelina  Dobbs,"  where  they  were 
im])atiently  waited  for,  and  captain  and  crew  stared  aghast 
at  sight  of  the  supposed  corpse. 

*'  Do  you  take  the  '  Angelina  Dobbs '  for  a  cemeteryj 
Mr.  Parmalee?"  demanded  Captain  Dobbs,  with  asperity. 
*'  Who's  that  air  corpse?" 

"  Come  into  the  cabin  and  I'll  tell  you,"  responded  Mr. 
Parmalee,  leading  the  way  and  bearing  his  burden. 

The  captain  lingered  a  moment  to  issue  his  orders,  and 
followed  the  photographic  artist  to  the  tiny  cabin. 

There  he  heard,  in  wonder  and  j^ity  and  dismay,  the 
story  of  the  stabbed  lady. 

'*  Poor  creeter!  Pretty  as  a  picter,  too!  Who  did  the 
deed?" 


THE    T^ARONET's    bride. 


233 


ihis 

cat 
ady 
lier 
ith. 


mn, 
was 


"  It  looked  like  her  liiisbaiul/'  replied  Mr.  Parmaloe. 
'*  Ho  was  as  jealous  as  a  Turk,  anyway." 

*■  Hhe  is  not  dead!"  exckvimod  Mrs.  Denover;  "her 
jioart  flutters.  Oh!  pray  leave  me  alone  with  her;  1  think 
1  know  what  to  do.'* 

The  men  quitted  the  cabin.  Mrs.  Denover  removed  her 
daughter's  clothing  and  examined  the  wound.  It  was 
deep  and  dangerous  looking,  but  not  necessarily  fatal — she 
knew  that,  and  she  had  had  considerable  experience  dur- 
ing her  rough  life  with  John  Thorndyke.  She  stanched 
the  How  of  blood,  bathed  and  dressed  the  wound,  and  finally 
th(!  dark  eyes  opened  and  looked  vaguely  in  her  face. 

"  Who  are  you?     Whv.iO  am  1?"  very  feebly. 

Tiie  woman  trembled  from  head  to  foot  and  sunk  down 
on  her  knees  by  the  bedside. 

"  I  am  your  nurse,''  she  said,  tremulously,  *'  and  you 
are  with  friends  who  Jove  you.'* 

The  deep,  dark  eyes  still  gazed  at  her — memory  was 
slowly  coming  back. 

"  Ah!  I  remember."  A  look  of  intense  anguish  crossed 
her  face.     "  You  are  my  mother!" 

"  Your  most  wretched  mother!  Oh,  my  darling,  I  am 
not  worthy  to  look  in  your  face!" 

*'  You  are  all  that  is  left  to  me  now — ah.  Heaven  pity 
me! — since  he  thinks  me  guilty.  1  remember  all.  He 
tried  to  murder  me;  he  called  me  a  name  1  will  never  for- 
get.    Mother,  how  came  1  here?    Is  this  a  ship?" 

Very  gently,  softly,  soothingly  the  mother  told  how  Mr. 
Parmalee  had  saved  her  life. 

"  And  where  are  we  going  now?" 

"  To  Southampton,  1  think.  But  we  will  return  if  you 
wish  it." 

'*  To  the  man  who  tried  to  take  my  life?  Ah,  no, 
mother!  Never  again  in  this  world  to  him!  Call  Mr. 
Parmalee. " 

"My  dear,  you  must  not  talk  so  much;  you  are  not 
able. " 

"Call  Mr.  Parmalee." 

Mrs.  Denover  obeyed. 

The  artist  presented  himself  promptly,  quite  overjoyed. 

"  Why,  now,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee,  "  I'd  rather  see  this 
than  have  a  thousand  dollars  down.  Why,  you  look  as 
spry  almost  as  ever.     How  do  you  feel?" 


834 


THE    BARONET'S    BRIDE. 


Sho  reached  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  M'nn  smile. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me  and  my  mother.  Be 
good  until  the  end.  If  1  die,  bury  me  where  he  will  never 
hear  oE  my  death  nor  look  upon  myjifrave.  If  I  live,  take 
me  back  to  Now  York— I  have  friends  there — and  don't 
let  him  know  whether  I  am  living  or  dead.*' 

Mr.  Parmalco  squeezed  her  slender  hand. 

"  I'll  do  it!  It's  a  go!  I  owe  him  one  for  that  kick- 
ing, and,  by  Jove!  here's  a  chance  to  pay  him.  Jest  you 
keep  up  heart  and  get  well,  and  we'll  take  you  to  New 
York  in  the  *  Angelina  Dobbs,'  and  nobody  bo  the  wiser." 

Mr.  Parmaloe  kept  his  word.  They  lay  aboard  the  ves- 
sel while  loading  at  Southampton,  and  a  surgeon  was  in 
daily  attendance  upon  the  sick  girl. 

"  You  fetch  her  round,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee.  "  She's 
the  skipper's  only  daughter — this  'ere  craft,  the  '  Angelina 
Dobbs,'  is  named  after  her — and  he'll  foot  the  bill  like  a 
lud.  There  ain't  a  lord  in  all  this  little  island  of  yours, 
ior  that  matter,  equal  to  the  Dobbs,  of  Dobbsville." 

The  surgeon  did  his  best,  and  was  liberally  i)aid  out  of 
the  three  hundred  pounds  which  Mrs.  Denover  liad  found 
in  the  bosom  of  Harriet's  dress.  But  for  days  and  weeks 
she  lay  very  ill — ill  unto  death — delirious,  senseless.  Then 
the  fever  yielded,  and  death-like  weakness  ensued. 

This,  too,  passed;  and  by  the  time  the  "Angelina'' 
reached  New  York,  the  poor  girl  was  able,  wan  and 
feeble,  to  saunter  up  and  down  the  deck,  and  drink  in  the 
life-giving  sea  air. 

Thus,  while  fruitless  search  was  boing  made  for  G.  "W. 
Parmalee  throughout  London — while  detectives  examined 
every  passenger  who  sailed  in  the  emigrant  ships — he  was 
safely  skimming  the  Atlantic  in  Captain  Dobbs's  cockle- 
shell. 

To  do  him  justice,  he  never  thought — and  no  more  did 
Harriet — of  what  might  follow  ber  disappearance.  The 
baronet  would  leave  the  country,  they  both  imagined,  and 
her  fate  ^ould  remain  forever  a  mystery. 

So  oiie  supposed  dead  bride  reached  New  York  in  safety, 
and  that  body  washed  ashore  and  identified  by  Sybilla  Sil- 
ver, to  suit  her  own  ends,  was  some  nameless  unforfcanate. 

On  the  pier  in  New  York  Mr.  Parmalee  and  Lady 
Kingsland  parted. 

**  I  am  going  to  my  uncle's  house,"  she  mi',   **  my 


THE    BATIONET  S    PRIDE. 


285 


Be 

lever 
take 


kick- 

yoii 

New 


my 


mottier's  brother.  Hugh  Denovflr  is  a  rich  merchant, 
and  will  receive  us,  I  know.  Keep  my  story  secret,  and 
come  and  see  me  next  time  yon  visit  New  York,  llvre  is 
my  uncle's  address;  give  me  yours,  and  if  ever  it  is  in  my 
power,  I  will  not  forget  how  nobly  you  have  acted  aid 
how  inadequately  you  have  been  repaid. *' 
They  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Mr.  Parmalce  went  "  down  East,"  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  his  little  English  speculation.  He  had  lost  a  hand- 
some reward  and  a  handsomer  wife.  He  dared  hardly 
Ijhink  to  himself  that  Sybilla  had  done  the  horrid  deed, 
and  he  had  never  breathed  a  word  of  his  suspicion  to  Har- 
riet. 

'*  Let  her  think  it's  the  baronet,  if  she's  a  mind  to,"  he 
said  to  himself.  *'  I  ain't  a-going  to  do  him  a  good  tu«i. 
Bnt  I  know  better." 

Harriet  and  her  mother  sought  out  Mr.  Denover.  Me 
lived  in  a  stately  up-town  mansion,  with  his  wife  and  one 
SOB,  and  received  both  poor  waifs  with  open  arms.  TEs 
lost  sister  had  been  his  boyhood's  pet;  he  had  nothing  for 
feea*  now  but  pity  and  forgiveness,  when  she  looked  at  him 
witJi  death  in  her  face. 

"My  poor  Maria, ^'  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
"  don't  talk  of  the  wretched  past.  I  love  my  only  sister 
ia  spite  of  all,  and  neither  she  nor  her  child  shall  want  a 
home  while  1  have  one." 

Harriet  told  her  story  very  brieily.  Her  father  had  bewi 
dead  for  two  years.  She  had  married;  she  had  not  li\'ed 
happily  with  her  husband,  and  they  had  parted.  She  had 
come  to  Uncle  Hugh;  she  knew  he  would  give  his  sister's 
daughter  a  home. 

She  told  her  story  with  dry  eyes  and  unfaltering  voice; 
but  Mr.  Denover,  looking  in  that  pale,  rigid  young  faoe, 
•  read  more  of  her  despair  than  she  dreamed. 

"  Her  husband  has  been  some  English  grandee,  like 
Captain  Hunsden,  I  dare  say,"  ho  thought,  "  proud  as 
Lucifer,  and  when  he  discovered  that  about  her  raothi'^r, 
despised  and  ill-treated  her.  No  common  trouble  would 
make  any  human  face  look  as  hers  does,  poor  child!" 

The  penitent  wife  of  Captain  Hunsderi  did  not  long  sur- 
vive to  enjoy  her  new  home.  Two  weeks  after  their  arriral 
she  lay  upon  her  death-bed.    Nothiup-  could  save  her.    Siio 


236 


THE    baronet's    BRIT)E. 


ii 


Jiail  been  doomctl  t.  months— life  gave  way  when  the  ex- 
cifcoment  that  had  buoyed  her  up  was  gone. 

l^y  night  and  day  Ilarriet  watched  by  her  bedside,  and 
the  repentant  Magdalen's  last  hours  were  the  most  blessed 
she  had  ever  known. 

"  I  do  not  deserve  to  die  like  this/'  she  often  said. 
'*  Oh,  my  darling,  your  love  makes  my  death-bed  very 
sweet!" 

They  laid  her  in  Greenwood,  and  once  more  Harriet's 
desolation  seemed  renewed. 

*'  I  am  doomed  to  lose  all  I  love,"  she  thought,  despair- 
ingly— "  father,  husband,  mother — all!" 

Hiie  drooped  day  by  day,  despite  the  tenderest  care.  No 
smile  over  lighted  her  pale  face,  no  happy  light  over  Kihono 
from  tlie  mournful  dark  eyes. 

"  Jler  heart  is  broken,"  said  Uncle  Hugh;  *' she  will 
die  by  inches  before  our  very  eyes!" 

And  Undo  Hugh's  prediction  might  have  been  ftdfllled 
had  not  a  new  excitement  arisen  to  stimulate  her  to  re- 
newed life  and  send  her  back  to  England. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

MR.    PARMALEE   TURNS    UP  TRUMPS. 

Mr.  G.  W.  Parmalee  went  down  to  Dobbsville,  Maine, 
and  reposed  again  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  lie  went 
to  work  on  the  paternal  acres  for  awhile,  gave  that  up  in 
disgust,  set  up  once  more  a  picture-gallery,  and  took  the 
portraits  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Dobbsville  at  fifty 
cents  a  head. 

But  Mr.  Parmalee  found  life  very  slow.  He  was  en- 
nuyed  nearly  to  death,  and  neither  man  nor  woman  de- 
lighted him.  Ha  looked  upon  the  bouncing  damsels, 
bursting  out  of  their  hooks  and  eyes,  with  cheeks  like  the 
reddest  side  of  a  scarlet  apple  and  eyes  like  azure  moons, 
and  compared  them,  in  scornful  bitterness  of  spirit,  with 
Miss  Sybilla  Silver,  the  fair,  the  false. 

Mr.  Parmalee  was  fast  becoming  a  misanthrope.  His 
speculation  hatl  failed,  his  love  was  lost;  nothing  lay  before 
him  but  a  long  and  dreary  existence  spent  in  immortalizing 
in  tin-types  the  belles  and  beaus  of  Dobbsville. 

Sometimes  a  lit  of  penitence  overtook  him  when  his 


|e  ex- 

and 

lessed 

'said, 
very 


TllH    IJAKONI.T  s    i;i;il)K. 


23; 


thouglits  rovoried  to  tho  desolate  you.in"  ercatiire,  worse 
than  widowed,  dray<;iiig  out  Jifo  in  !Nuw  "^'ork. 

"  I'd  ought  to  tell  her,"  Mr.  Tarmalee  tiiought.  "  It 
ain't  right  to  let  her  keep  on  thinking  that  her  husband 
murdered  her.  But  then  it  goes  awfully  against  a  foller'a 
grain  to  poach  on  the  girl  he  meant  to  murry.     Still — '' 

Tho  remorseful  reflection  haunted  him,  do  what  he 
would,  lie  took  to  dreaming  of  the  young  baronet,  too. 
Night  after  night,  pale  and  reproachful,  he  stood  beforo 
him  in  his  sleep,  haunting  him  like  an  uneasy  j^liost. 
Once  ho  saw  him  in  his  shroud,  lying  deail  on  the  stono 
terrace,  and  at  sight  of  him  the  corpse  had  risen  up, 
ghastly  in  its  grave  clothes,  and,  pointing  one  quivering 
linger  at  him,  said,  in  an  awful  voice: 

"  CJ.  W.  Parmalee,  it  is  you  who  have  done  this!" 

And  Mr.  Parmalee  had  started  uj)  in  bed,  the  cold  sweat 
standing  on  his  brow  like  a  shower  of  pease. 

"I  won't  stand  this,  by  thunder!"  thought  the  artist 
next  morning,  in  a  lit  of  desperation.  "  I'll  write  up  to 
New  York  this  very  day  and  tell  her  all,  so  help  me  Bob!" 

But  "  riunmnc  propose  '* — you  know  tho  proverb.  Squire 
Brown,  who  lived  half  a  mile  oir,  and  had  never  heard  of 
Harriet  in  his  life,  elTectually  altered  Mr.  Parmalee's 
jdans. 

The  worthy  squire.  Jogging  along  in  his  cart  from 
market,  came  upon  tho  artist,  sitting  on  the  top  rail  of 
the  gate,  whittling,  and  locking  gloomily  dejected. 

"Hi!  (leorge,  my  buy!"  varied  out  the  lusty  squire, 
"  what's  gone  v/ron?-?  You  look  as  dismal  as  a  grave- 
yard!" 

"  W-a-a-1!"  drawled  the  artist,  who  wasn't  going  to  tell 
his  troubles  on  the  house-tops,  "  there  ain't  nothin'  much 
to  speak  of.  It's  the  all-fired  dullness  of  this  pesky,  one- 
horse  village,  where  there  ain't  nothin'  stirrin',  'cept  Hies 
in  fly-time,  from  one  year's  end  to  t'other." 

"  See  what  comes  of  traveling,"  said  Squire  Brown. 
' '  If  you  had  stayed  at  home,  instead  of  flying  round  Eng- 
land, you'd  have  been  as  right  as  a  trivet.  My  'pinion  is, 
you've  boon  and  left  a  gal  behind.  Here's  a  London  pa- 
per tor  you.  My  missus  gets  'em  every  mjiil.  l*erhai)S 
you'll  see  your  gal's  name  in  the  list  of  marriages." 

Mr.  Parmalee  took  the  pauer  chucked  at  him  with  lan- 
guid indifference. 


m 


u 


23S 


TUB    BAKONBT'S    bride. 


"  Any  news?"  ho  asked. 

"  Lots — just  suitod  to  your  complaint.  A  coal  mine  in 
Cornwairs  been  and  caved  in  and  buried  alive  tifteeu 
workmen;  there's  been  a  horrid  riot  in  Leeds;  and  a  baf- 
oiiot  in  Devonshire  is  sentenced  to  bo  hung  for  murdering 
hia  wife." 

Mr.  Paimaloe  gave  one  yell — one  horrid  yell,  like  a 
Comanche  war-whoo^) — and  leaped  off  the  fence. 

"  What  did  you  say?*'  he  roaretl.  "  A  baronet  in 
Devonsliire  for  murdering  his  wife?** 

"  Thunder!*'  ejaculated  Squire  Brown.  *'  You  didn't 
know  him,  did  you?  Maybe  you  took  his  picture  when  ia 
England?  Yes,  a  baronet,  and  hia  name  it's  Sir  Everard 
Kingsland." 

\V  ith  an  unearthly  groan,  Mr.  Parmalee  tore  open  ike 
paper. 

*'  They  haven't  hanged  him  yet,  have  they?"  he  gaspe^^ 
ghtistly  white.  "  Oh,  good  Lord  above!  what  have  1 
done?" 

Sqmre  Brown  sat  and  stared,  a  spectacle  of  densest  be- 
wilderment. 

"  You  didn't  do  the  murder,  1  hope?"  he  asked. 

But  Mr.  Parmalee  was  immersed  fathoms  deep  in  tke 
paper,  and  would  not  have  heard  a  thunder-bolt  crashing 
beside  him. 

The  squire  rode  away,  and  Mr.  Parmalee  sat  for  a  good 
kour,  half  stupefied  over  the  account.  The  paper  con- 
teined  a  resume  of  the  trial,  from  first  to  last — dwelling 
particularly  on  Miss  Silver's  evidence,  and  ending  with  the 
sentence  of  the  court. 

The  paper  dropped  from  the  artist's  paralyzed  hand. 
He  covered  his  face  and  sat  in  a  trance  of  horror  and  re- 
morse. His  mother  came  to  call  him  to  dinner,  and  as  be 
Jookod  up  in  answer  to  her  call,  she  started  back  with  a 
scream  at  sight  of  his  unearthly  face. 

'*  Lor'  a-massy,  George  Washington!  what  ever  kas 
«omo  to  you?" 

Mr.  Parmalee  got  up  and  strode  fiercely  past  her  into 
the  house. 

"  Pack  up  my  clean  socks  and  shirts,  mother,"  he  said. 
*'  I'm  going  back  to  England  by  the  first  steamer." 

Late  next  evening  Mr.  Parmalee  reached  New  Yoikc 


THE    BAKONET's    bride. 


889 


no  in 

ifteeu 

bar- 

eriog 


Kiriy  the  followiiig  morning  ho  strode  up  to  tho  brown- 
stone  mansion  of  Mr.  iJanovor  uiul  sharply  rang  tho  bell. 

"  la  Lftcly — 1  mean,  is  Mr.  Denovor's  niece  to  homo!"* 

The  servant  stared,  bat  utihored  him  into  the  drawiug- 
Mom. 

♦'Who  shall  I  say?" 

Mr.  Parmalee  handed  her  hia  card. 

•'  flive  her  that.  TeU  her  it's  a  matter  of  life  and 
death.-' 

The  servant  stared  harder  than  over,  but  took  the  paste- 
board and  vanished.  Ten  minutes  after,  and  Harriot,  in  a 
white  morning  robe,  paJe  and  terriiied,  hurried  in. 

"  Mr.  Parmalee,  has  anything— have  you  heard —  Ofa, 
wJaat  is  it?" 

'*  It  is  this.  Lady  Kingsland:  your  husband  has  beea 
arrested  and  tried  for  your  murderl" 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  and  sunk  into  a  seat, 
{^e  did  not  cry  out  or  exclaim.     She  sat  aghast 

•'  He  has  been  tried  and  condemned,  and — ** 

He  could  not  finiak  the  sentence,  out  of  pity  for  tkat 
death -like  face. 

But  she  understood  him,  and  a  scream  rang  through  tko 
house  which  those  who  heard  it  might  never  forget. 

"  Oh,  my  God  I  he  is  condemned  to  be  hanged!" 

**  He  is,"  said  Mr.  Parmalee;  "but  we'll  stop  'em. 
If  ow,  don't  you  go  and  excite  yourself,  my  lady,  because 
yoa'U  need  all  your  strength  a.ud  presence  of  mind  in  this 
kere  emergency.  There's  a  steamer  for  Liverpool  to-mor- 
row.    I  secured  our  passage  before  I  ever  came  here." 

She  pressed  her  hands  oonvulaively  over  her  throbbing 
heart. 

"  May  the  great  God  grant  we  be  in  time!  Oh,  my 
love!  my  darling!  my  husband!  1  never  thought  of  this. 
Let  me  but  save  you,  and  I  am  ready  to  die!" 

*'  Only  hear  her!"  cried  the  electrified  artist,  who  didn't 
iKiderstand  this  feminine  sort  of  ethics;  *'  talking  like  that 
s>boui  the  man  she  thinks  stabbed  her.  1  do  believe  she 
loves  him  yet" 

She  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him. 

**  With  my  whole  heart  I  would  die  this  instant  to 
save  him.  I  love  him  as  dearly  as  when  I  stood  beside 
lakm.  at  the  altar  a  blessed  bride.    And  he — ah^  bo\T  dearly 


:840 


TTTK    r.AUONKTS    HUTDE. 


ho  lovod  mo  oiico.  It  i'h  something  oven  to  romomltor 
that." 

"  Well,  I'll  bo  aarneil/'  burst  out  Mr.  IWiuiilco,  "  if 
this  <lon't  bojit  all  (jreatioii!  You  winimin  uro  tlio  most 
curious  orittors  that  cvor  wore  invcnited.  Now,  th(4i,  what 
would  you  give  to  know  it  was  not  >Sir  Evururd  whostabbtul 
you  tliat  night?" 

Sho  lookod  at  him  with  wild,  wide  eyes. 

"  Not  Sir  Evcrard?  lUit  I  saw  liini;  T  hoard  him 
S])(<ak.  lie  did  it  in  a  moment  of  nuidiie.^H,  Mr.  Parnudno, 
and  Heaven  only  knows  what  anguish  aad  remorse  he  has 
fiuffered  since." 

"  1  hojio  so,"  said  Mr.  Parnudee.  "  T  hojio  lie's  gone 
through  piles  of  agony,  for  I  don't  like  a  bone  in  his  body, 
if  it  comes  to  that.  But,  I  repeat,  it  was  not  your  li its- 
band  who  stabbed  you  on  the  stone  terrace  tiiat  dismal 
night.  It  was  " — Mr.  Parnudee  gulped — "  it  was  {Sybilla 
Silver!" 

"  What?" 

*'  Yes,  ma'am — sounds  incredible,  but  it's  a  fact.  She 
rigged  out  in  a  suit  of  Sir  Everard's  clothes,  mimicked  his 
voice,  and  did  the  deed.  1  saw  her  face  when  she  jiitihed 
you  over  the  rail  as  plain  as  I  see  your'n  this  nunute,  and 
I'm  ready  to  swear  to  it  through  all  the  courts  in  Christen- 
dom. She  hated  you  like  pisen,  and  the  l)aronet,  too,  and 
she  thinks  she's  put  an  end  to  you  both;  but  if  wo  don't 
give  her  an  eye-opener  pretty  soon,  my  name  ain't  I'arnui- 
lee." 

She  sunk  on  her  knees  and  held  up  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Thank  God!  thank  God!  thank  (!od!" 

And  then,  woman-like,  the  sudden  ecstasy  was  too 
much,  and  the  hysterics  came  on.  She  laughed,  and 
kissed  Mr.  Parmalee^s  hand,  and  dropjjcd  it,  and  broke  out 
into  a  perfect  passion  of  tempestuous  sobs;  and  Mr. 
Parmalee,  scared  pretty  nearly  out  of  his  wits,  rang  the 
bell  and  quitted  the  house  precipitately,  leaving  word  that 
he  would  call  again  in  the  evening  and  arrange  matters, 
when  '*  Mr.  Denover's  niece  had  come  to." 

Next  day  they  sailed  for  England.  The  passage  was  all 
that  could  be  desired,  even  by  the  mad  ini))atience  of  Har- 
riet. People  stared  at  tlie  pale,  beautiful  girl  with  liie 
high-bred  face  and  the  wild,  strained  eyes  who  seemed  to 
know  no  one  save  the  tall  Yankee  gentleman,  who  ad 


TUV.    HAUONKT  A    i;icii»i:. 


^'41 


%  "if 

most; 

,  wlml. 

,ubbc!(l 


hint 
niiihu;, 
ho  hiis 


lirossol  licr  hh  "  my  liuly. "  It  was  very  cmM,  and  thoy 
aakcd  Mr.  I'ariiialoo  (juestions,  and  Mr.  Tarjualuo  v\i»[ 
ilujiu  asUaiux!,  and  informed  them  ahv  was  a  youn;^  (lM<;h- 
ctiS  travoliniif  inrof/.  under  his  i)rotu(;tion;  had  tlojic  tlio 
criiat  United  Status,  and  was  ^oin^  to  bring  it  out  in  a 
booli.  Hut  Harriot  liorsolf  addressed  no  on o.  Heart  and 
soul  were  absorbed  in  the  ono  thouglit — the  one  liopo — to 
roach  Knghmd  in  time. 

Tliuy  arrived  in  Liverpool.  Mr.  Parnudee  and  liis  eom- 
puTUon  ])0Htcd  full  speed  down  to  JJuvonshire.  I»i  the 
luminous  dusk  of  the  soft  May  evening  they  reached  Wor- 
rell, Harriet's  thiol   veil  hiding  her  from  every  eye. 

"  We'll  go  to  iMr.  lUyson's  lirst,"  said  Parmaloe,  Hry- 
son  being  Hn*  Evorard's  lawyer.  "  We're  in  the  very  niok 
of  time;  to-morrow  morning  at  day-dawn  is  lixod  for — " 

"  Oh,  hush!"  in  a  voioe  of  agony;  "  not  that  I'oarfid 
word!  Oh,  Mr.  I'armalee,  if  we  should  bo  too  late,  after 
all!" 

""Wo  can't,"  said  the  artist;  "they  ain't  a-going  to 
hang  liim  for  tho  murder  of  awonuin  theysoo  alive.  VVe'll 
sto])  'em,  if  tho  ropo  is  round  his  neuk.  You  keep  u\)  a 
good  heart — you're  all  right,  at  last." 

They  reached  tho  house  of  Mr.  ]>ryson.  Ho  sat  over  hi.s 
eight-o'clock  cup  of  tea,  with  a  very  gloomy  face.  The 
tragedy  to  tako  place  in  tho  gray  and  dismal  dawn  to-moi- 
row  had  cast  an  awful  shadow  over  tho  whole  place,  lie 
had  known  Sir  Everard  all  his  life — ho  had  known  his 
beautiful  bride,  so  passionately  beloved.  He  had  bidden 
tho  doomed  young  baronet  a  last  farewell  that  afternoon. 

"  He  never  did  it,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  There  is  a 
horrible  mystery  somewhere.  Ho  never  did  it — I  could 
stake  my  life  on  his  innocence — and  he  is  to  die  to-mor>. 
row,  poor  fellow!  That  missing  man,  Parmalee,  did  it, 
and  that  lierce  young  woman  with  the  big  black  eyes  and 
deceitful  tongue  was  his  aider  and  abettor.  If  I  could 
only  find  that  man!" 

A  servant  entered  with  a  card,  "  G.  W.  Parmalee." 
The  lawyer  rose  with  a  cry. 

"  Good  Heaven  above!  It  can't  be!  It's  too  good  to 
bo  true!  He  never  would  rush  into  the  lion's  den  in  this 
way.     John  Thomas,  who  gave  you  this?" 

"  "Which  the  gentleman  is  in  the  droring-room,  sir,"  re- 
sponded John  Thomas,  "  as  likewise  the  lady." 


I 

ii 


h 


243 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


Mr.  JRryson  rushed  for  the  drawing-room^  flung  wi'ie 
the  door,  aud  confronted  Mr.  Parmalee.  The  sight  struck 
him  specculess. 

"  Good-evening,  squire/*  said  the  Amorican. 

'•  You  here  I"  gasi>ed  the  lawyer — "  the  man  for  whom 
we  have  been  scouring  the  kingdom!" 

"  You'd  oughtur  scoured  the  Atlantic,"  replied  the 
artist,  with  infinite  calm.  "l'\8  been  home  to  see  my 
folks.  I  suppose  you  wanted  me  to  throw  a  little  light  on 
that  'ere  horrid  murdc  r?  Ah,  dreadful  thing  that  was^ 
Pound  the  body  yet?" 

'* }  suspect  you  know  mcc  of  that  murder  than  any 
other  man  alive  I"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  Do  tell!  Well,  now,  I  ain't  a-going  to  deny  it — I  do 
know  all  about  it,  squire." 

"  What?" 

"  Precisely!  Don't  holier  out  vso!  What  do  you  thiak 
s  fellow 's  narves  are  made  of?  Yes,  sir,  I  saw  the  deed 
done.'' 

"  You  did?    Good  heavens!" 

**  Don'c  sv/ear,  squire;  it's  an  immoral  practice.  Yes, 
I  saw  tho  stab  given  with  that  'ere  long  knife;  and  it 
wasn't  the  baronet  did  it,  either,  though  you're  going  to 
kang  him  for  it  to-morrow." 

*'  In  Heaven's  name,  man,  speak  out!  Who  did  ifke 
€l«ed?" 

'*  Sybilla  Siker!" 

The  lawyer  clasped  his  hands  with  a  wild  gesture. 

**  1  knew  it — 1  thought  it — I  mid  it!  The  she-devJH 
Poor,  poor  Lady  Kingsland!" 

"Ma'am,"  said  the  American,  turning  blandly  to  his 
veiled  companion,  "  perhaps  it  will  relievo  Mr.  Bryson's 
gushing  bosom  to  behold  your  face.  Jest  lift  that  'ere 
reil." 

The  veiled  female  rose,  flung  back  her  veil,  and  co«- 
Ironted  the  lawyer.  With  an  awful  cry  Mr.  Bryson  stag- 
gered back  against  the  wall. 

"  All- merciful  Heaven  I  the  dead  alive!  Lady  KingS" 
land!" 


truck 


tnE    LAUONET's    UlilttE, 


im 


3e  my 
lit  on 
was! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

HIGHLY    SENSATIONAL. 


Sybilla 


SiLVEfi  went  stmight  from  the  prison  cell  oi 
Su-  Everard  to  the  sick-room  of  hia  mother.  It  was  almost 
elovon  whon  slie  roachecl  the  Court,  but  they  watched  tlie 
iiight  throusjh  in  that  house  of  mourning. 

Leaving  the  lly  before  the  front  entrance,  Sybilla  stole 
round,  in  tbe  placid  May  moonlight,  to  that  side  door  she 
luul  used  tho  memorable  night  of  March  tenth.  She  had  a 
latch-key  to  lit  it,  and  it  was  never  bolted,  as  she  knew. 
She  admitted  herself  without  diiiicnlty,  and  prooeedei 
at  once  to  Lady  Kingsland's  sick-room. 

IShe  tapped  lightly  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  instantly, 
and  the  pale  face  of  Mild  red  looked  out.  At  sight  of  h»r 
visitor  she  recoiled  with  a  look  of  undisguised  horror. 

'*  You  here!  How  dare  you,  you  cruel,  wicked,  mwoi- 
less  woman!"  she  indignantly  cried. 

*'  Hard  words,  Miss  Kingsland.  Let  me  in,  if  you  pleaae 
— 1  wish  to  see  your  mother." 

"  You  shall  not  come  in  I  I  will  rouse  the  house!  The 
sight  of  you  will  kill  her!  I  will  die  before  1  let  you  cross 
tkts  threshold!  Was  it  not  enough  to  swear  p.way  tho  life 
•f  her  only  son?  Do  you  want  to  blast  hor  dying  hours 
mth  the  sight  of  your  base,  treacherous  face?" 

She  broke  out  into  a  passionate  paroxysm  of  weeping. 

With  a  look  of  scornful  contempt,  Sybilia  took  her  by 
tke  shoulder  and  drew  her  out  of  the  room. 

*'  Don't  be  ar  idiot,  Mildred  Kingsland!  1  gave  my  evi- 
dence— how  could  1  help  it?  It  wasn't  my  fault  that  yo»r 
brother  murdered  his  wife.  Hold  your  tongue  and  listea 
to  me.  I  must  see  your  mother  for  ten  minutes.  1  have 
been  to  the  prison.     I  bring  a  last  message  from  her  son. " 

Mildred  looked  up  in  consternation. 

"You  have  been  to  prison!"  she  cried.  **  You  dare 
look  my  brother  in  the  face!" 

*'  Just  as  easily  as  1  clo  kis  sister.  Luckily,  he  has  more 
sense  than  she  has,  and  bears  me  no  grudge  for  what !'. 
ee«Id  not  help.  Am  I  to  soo  Lady  Kingsland,  or  shall '. 
go  as  I  came,  with  Sir  Everard 's  mesBage  undelivered?" 

^'  Tbe  sight  of  you  will  kill  her*" 


M 


tf 


t 


1! 


m: 


THE    3AliONEX  S    LKIDE. 


"Wc  must  risk  that." 

She  passed  into  tho  room  as  she  spoke,  with  a  parting 
word  for  Mildred. 

"  Wait  here/'  she  said.  *'  I  must  see  her  quite  alone, 
dut  it  will  only  be  for  a  few  minutes." 

She  closed  the  door  and  stood  alone  the  sick  lady's  room. 
The  night-lamp  burned  dim;  she  turned  it  u])  and  a}»- 
2)roached  the  bed. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mildred?"  a  weak  voice  asked.    "  The  light 


is  too  strong." 

"  It  is  not  Mildred,  my  lady. 
*'Sybilla  Silver!" 


It  is  I." 


No  words  can  describe  the  look  of  agony,  of  terror,  of 
repulsion,  that  crossed  my  lady's  face.  She  held  up  both 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  loathing  and  horror. 

*'  Keep  off!"  she  cried.     "  You  murderess!" 

Involuntarily  the  fiendish  woman  quailed  at  that  word. 
But  only  for  an  instant. 

*'  Yes,"  she  cried,  her  black  eyes  flaming  up,  **  that  is 
the  word — murderess! — for  I  murdered  your  daughter-in- 
law.  You  never  liked  her,  you  know.  Lady  Kiiigsland. 
Surely,  then,  when  I  stabbed  her  and  throw  her  into  the 
sea,  I  did  you  a  good  turn.  Don't  cry  out,  please;  there 
is  no  one  to  hear  but  Mildred,  and  she  was  always  a  j)oor, 
weak  fool.  Lie  still,  and  listen  to  me.  1  have  a  long  story 
to  tell  you,  beginning  with  the  astrologer's  prediction." 

These  last  two  words,  as  Sybilla  well  knew,  riveted  the 
attention  of  the  sick  woman  at  once. 

With  fiendish  composure  Sybilla  repeated  the  story 
she  had  told  Sir  Everard,  while  Lady  Kingsland  lay  para- 
lyzed and  listened. 

The  atrocious  revelation  ended,  sh:  looked  at  her  pros- 
trate foe  with  a  diabolical  smile. 

*'  My  oath  is  kept;  the  prediction  is  fulfilled.  In  a  few 
hours  the  last  of  the  Kingslands  dies  by  the  hand  of  tho 
common  hangman.  I  have  told  you  all,  and  I  dare  you  to 
injure  one  hair  of  my  head.  Within  the  hour  my  journey 
from  England  commences.  Search  for  last  year's  snow, 
for  last  September's  partridges,  and  when  you  find  them 
you  may  hope  to  find  Sybilla  Silver.  Burn  the  prediclion, 
destroy  my  grandmother's  portrait  and  lock  of  hair,  so 
carefully  hidden  away  for  many  years.     Their  work  i» 


'  1 


THE    baronet's    BRIDE. 


245 


mil. 
aj.- 


ight 


done,  and  my  vengeance  is  complete.     Lady  Kingsland, 
farewell!" 

'*  Murderess!"  spoke  a  deep  and  awful  voice — "  mur- 
deress! murderess!** 

*^Ah.h-h-h-h!" 

With  a  shriek  of  wordless  affright,  Sybilla  Silver  leaped 
back,  and  stood  cowering  against  the  wall.  For  the  dead 
had  risen  and  stood  before  her.  The  phantom  t  lowly  ail- 
vanced. 

"  Murderess,  confess  your  guilt!*' 

**  Mercy,  mercy!  mercy!**  shrieked  Sybilla  Silver. 
"  Spare  me!    Touch  me  not!    Oh,  God!  what  is  this?'* 

*'  Confess!'* 

Hollow  and  terrible  sounded  that  voice. 

•'  1  confess — I  murdered  you — 1  stabbed  you!  Sir  Ever- 
ard  is  innocent!    Keep  off!    Mercy!  mercy!** 

With  an  unearthly  scream,  the  horrified  woman  threw 
up  both  arms  to  keep  off  the  awful  vision,  and  fell  for- 
ward in  strong  convulsions. 

"  Very  well  done,**  said  Mr.  Bryson,  entering  briskly. 
"  1  don*t  think  we  need  any  further  proof  of  this  lady's 
guilt.  You  have  played  ghost  to  some  purpose,  my  dear 
Lady  Kingsland.  Who  says,  now,  my  melodramatic  idea 
was  not  a  good  one?  She  would  have  denied  every  word 
black,  and  tortures  would  not  have  wrung  a  confession  out 
of  her.  Come  in,  gentlemen.  We'll  have  no  trouble  car- 
rying off  our  prize.  1  hope  she  hasn't  done  too  much  mis- 
chief already." 

He  paused,  and  stepped  back  with  a  blanched  face,  for 
Lady  Kingsland  lay  writhing  in  the  last  agony. 

With  a  wild  cry,  Mildred  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by 
her  mother's  side. 

*'  Mamma — dear  mamma — don't  look  like  that!  Har- 
riet is  not  dead.  She  is  here  alive.  It  was  that  dreadful 
woman  who  tried  to  kill  her.  Everard  is  innocent,  as  we 
knew  he  was.     He  will  be  here  with  us  in  a  day  or  two. " 

The  dying  woman  was  conscious.  Her  eyes  turned  and 
fixed  on  Harriet  The  white  disguise  had  been  thrown  off. 
She  came  over  to  the  bedside,  pale  and  beautiful. 

**  Mother,**  she  said,  sweetly,  **  it  is  indeed  L  Dear 
mother,  bless  me  once.  *' 

**  May  God  bless  you  and  forgive  me!    Tell  Everani — '* 

She   never   finished    tho  sentence.     The  death-rattle 


246 


THE    BABONET'S    BRIDE. 


sounded,  her  kead  fell  baok,  her  eyes  turned.  With  ih» 
name  of  the  son  she  idolized  upon  her  lips.  Lady  Kingsland 
was  dead. 

The  three  men — Mr.  Bryson,  Mr.  Parmalee,  and  the 
head  constable  of  Worrel — stood  looking  at  one  another, 
awed  and  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  shock. 

But  Harriet's  presence  of  mind  did  not  forsake  her. 
Reverently  she  kissed  the  dead  face,  closed  the  dead  eyes, 
and  rose. 

**  The  dead  are  free  from  suffering.  Our  first  duty  is  to 
the  living.     Take  me  to  my  husband!" 

She  held  out  her  arms  imploringly.  The  men  assented 
iiaanimously.  The  constable  lifted  Sybilla  unceremoni- 
OBsly.  The  servants  gathered  outside  the  door  gave  way, 
a/skd  he  placed  her  in  the  carriage  which  had  conveyed  them 
to  the  house. 

Mr.  Parmalee  went  with  him,  and  Lady  Kingsland  and 
the  lawyer  took  possession  of  the  fly  that  stood  waiting  f»f 
Miss  Silver. 

A  minute  later  and  they  were  flying,  swift  as  la^  and 
^e«t  oould  urge  them,  toward  Worrel  Jail. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 
"after  storm,  the  sunshine." 

HiRLiER  in  the  evening,  when  Harriet  had  told  her 
s^ory  to  Mr.  Bryson,  that  gentleman  had  proceeded  at  once 
to  the  prison  to  inform  the  prisoner  and  the  officials  thut 
ike  murdered  lady  was  alive. 

Full  of  his  good  news,  he  hastened  rapidly  forward,  and 
was  admitted  at  once  to  the  condemned  cell. 

There  he  found  the  warden  of  the  prison  and  the  clergy- 
man, listening  with  very  perplexed  faces  to  a  story  ilie 
prisoner  was  narrating. 

Sir  Everard  lay  upon  the  bed,  pallid  and  exhausted,  but 
thoroughly  calm  and  self-possessed. 

'*  This  IS  a  most  extraordinary  revelation,"  the  clergy- 
man was  saying,  with  a  bewildered  face.  "  I  really  doa't 
know  what  to  think. " 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Mr.  Bryson. 

*'  A  story  which,  wildly  incredible  as  it  seems,  is  yet  true 
m  Holy  Writ,"  answered  the  prigoner.     *'  The  real  mur- 


THE    BAIiONfiT^S    BRIDE. 


247 


derer  ie  found.     Sho  has   been  hero,  and  admitted  hor 
guilt." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  the  lawyer.     "  Sybilla  Silver?" 

There  was  an  exclamation  from  his  listeners. 

"  Why!"  cried  the  warden,  in  wonder,  "  you,  too?" 

*'  Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Bryson,  with  a  nod.  "  I  know  all 
about  it.  A  most  important  witness  has  turned  up — a® 
other  than  the  missing  man,  Mr.  Parmalee.  lie  saw  the 
deed  done — saw  Sybilla  Silver,  dressed  in  Sir  Everard's 
clothes,  do  it,  and  has  come  all  the  way  from  America  to 
testify  against  her.  Sir  Ererard,  my  dear  friend,  from 
the  bottom  of  my  soul  I  congratulate  yo«  ou.  your  most 
blessed  escape!" 

The  tears  were  in  hia  eyes  as  he  wrung  the  youmg  man's 
hand;  but  Sir  Evorard  took  it  very  quietly.  He  seemed  to 
have  passed  beyond  all  earthly  emotion. 

"  Thank  you!"  be  said.  If  my  life  is  spared,  it  is  for 
some  good  end,  no  doubt.  Thank  God!  A  felon's  death 
would  have  been  yery  bitter,  and  for  my  mother's  sake  I 
rejoice." 

"  Not  for  your  own?" 

He  shaded  his  face  and  tarned  away. 

'"''  I  have  lost  all  that  made  life  sweet.  My  wJfe  is  in 
heaven.  For  me  earth  holds  nothing  btit  peuitence  and 
remorse. " 

*'  I  am  not  so  sure  about  that.  I  have  better  news  for 
yo*  even  than  the  news  1  have  told.  My  dear  friend,  caa 
yom  bear  a  great  shock — a  shock  of  joy.'" 

He  sprung  up  in  bed,  electrified. 

"  Speak!"  he  gasped.     "  Oh,  for  God's  SijJie— " 

"  Your  wife  [&  alive!" 

There  was  a  simultaneous  cry.  The  tJu'ee  meu  hardly 
dared  look  at  the  baronet. 

Mr.  Bryson  hurried  on  rapidly: 

"  Sybilla  Silver  stabbed  her,  and  threw  her  over  upon  tiie 
shore.  Mr.  Parmalee  picked  her  up — not  dead,  but  badly 
wounded — took  her  on  board  a  vessel — took  her  ilnally  to 
America.  Sybilla  Silver  deceived  your  poor  wife  as  she  de- 
ceived us  all.  Lndy  Kingsland  thought  it  was  you.  Sir 
Everard.  But  she  is  alive  and  well,  and  in  Worrel  at  tliis 
very  moment.  Sir  Everard,  my  dear  friend,  bear  this  like 
a  man!  You  have  endured  the  highest  earthly  misfortune 
like  a  hero.    Do  uot  mtik  2U)W  under  yuur  new-found  joy. 


248 


TIIK    BARON  KT's    nKlDE. 


r  iS 


God  is  good,  you  see,  to  thoso  who  trust  in  Iliin.  Our 
lirst  business  is  to  cage  our  bird  before  she  flics.  Can  you 
aid  us  any.  Sir  Everard?  Where  are  we  most  hkeJy  to 
find  her?'' 

"  At  the  Court,"  the  baronet  answered.  "  She  left 
hero  to  go  there — to  kill  my  mother  with  her  horrible  news, 
if  she  could.*' 

He  was  scarcely  able  to  reply.  Ilia  heart  was  full  to 
bursting.  His  wife  alive — in  Worrel?  Oh,  it  was  too 
good  to  be  true! 

*'  We  will  leave  you  now,"  Mr.  Bryson  said,  rising. 
*'  Come,  gentlemen;  Sir  Everard  wants  to  be  alone.  J  am 
off  to  secure  my  prisoner;  and  really  I  never  did  secure  a 
prisoner  before  with  half  so  much  delight." 

It  was  on  his  way  back  to  his  own  house  that  Mr.  Bryson 
lighted  on  his  ghostly  plan  for  frightening  Sybilla.  How 
well  it  succeeded  you  know. 

She  was  still  insensible  when  they  reached  the  prison, 
and  was  handed  over  to  the  proper  authorities.  Harriet 
turned  her  imploring  face  toward  the  lawyer. 

*'  Let  me  go  to  my  hubsand!  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Bryson,  let 
mo  go  at  once!" 

They  led  her  to  the  door.  The  jailer  admitted  her  and 
closed  it  again.  She  was  in  her  husband's  prison  cell. 
Beside  the  bed,  in  the  dim  lamp-light,  he  knelt — very, 
very  worn,  very,  very  pale.  She  gave  a  sob  at  the  sight. 
Her  arms  were  arouud  his  neck,  her  tears,  her  kisses  rain- 
ing on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling!  my  life,  my  love,  my 
husband!" 

"  Harriet!" 

With  a  great  cry  ho  rose  and  hold  her  to  his  heart — held 
her  as  though  never  0!i  this  earth  to  let  her  go  again. 

"  My  wife,  my  wife!" 

And  then,  weak  with  long  illness  and  repeated  shocks — 
this  last,  greatest  shock  of  all — he  sat  down,  faint  unto 
death. 

*'  Oil,  my  love,  my  wife!  to  think  that  I  should  hold  you 
once  more  in  my  arms,  look  onou  more  into  your  living 
face!  My  wife,  my  wife!  How  cruel,  how  merciless  I  have 
Deen  to  you!  May  God  forgive  me!  1  will  forgive  myself 
— never!" 


THK    baronet's    P.TtTDE. 


249 


my 


Her  white  liaiiu  oovorcil  liis  lips — lier  own  sealed  ihoin 
with  passioinito  kisses. 

*'  jQot  one  word  I  Bt.'tvveon  lis  there  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  forgiveness.  We  could  neither  of  us  have  acted  other 
thr»n  iis  we  did.  My  oatli  bound  me — your  honor  was  at 
stake.  We  have  both  sufTered — Heaven  only  knows  how 
dcei)ly.  But  it  is  2^Hst  now.  Nothing  in  this  lower  world 
shall  ever  come  between  us  again,  my  beloved!" 

"  Not  even  death,"  he  said,  folding  hex  close  to  his 
heart. 


* 


* 


* 


One  month  after  and  Sir  Everard  Kingsland,  his  wife, 
and  sister  quitted  England  for  the  Continent,  not  to  make 
the  grand  tour  and  return,  but  to  reside  for  years. 
England  was  too  full  of  painful  memories;  under  the  sun- 
lit skies  of  beautiful  Italy  they  wer(^  going  to  forget. 

Sybilla  Silver  was  dead.  All  her  plans  had  failed — her 
oath  of  vengeance  was  broken.  Sir  Everard  and  his  bride 
were  triumphant.  She  had  failed — miserably  failed;  she 
thought  of  it  until  she  went  mad — stark,  staring  mad. 
Her  piercing  shrieks  rang  through  the  stony  prison  all  day 
and  all  night  long,  freezing  the  blood  of  the  listeners,  un- 
til one  night,  in  a  paroxysm  of  frenzy,  she  had  dashed  her 
head  against  the  wall  and  bespattered  the  floor  with  her 
blood  and  brains.  They  found  her,  in  the  morning,  stone 
dead. 


* 


Out  into  the  lazy  June  sunshine  the  steamer  glided, 
feaving  the  chalky  cliffs  of  old  England  behind.  With  his 
handsome  wife  on  his  arm,  the  fair-haired  young  b*tronet 
stood  looking  his  last  at  his  native  land,  his  face  infinitely 
happy. 

*'  For  years,''  he  said,  with  a  smile — '*  for  life,  perhaps, 
Harriet.     I  feel  as  if  I  never  wished  to  return. " 

*'  But  we  shall,"  she  said.  "  England  is  home.  A  few 
happy  years  in  fair  foreign  lands,  and  then,  Everard,  back 
to  the  old  land.  But  first,  1  confess,  I  should  like  again 
to  see  America,  and  Uncle  Denover,  and  " — with  a  little 
lai^h — "  George  Washington  Parmaloe." 

For  Mr.  Parmalee  had  gone  back  to  Dobbsville,  a  rich 
and  happy  man,  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Sir  E\rerard 
Kingsland  included. 

**  You're  a  brick,  baronet,"  his  parting  speech  had  bee!i. 


n  I 


I; 


260 


THE    BARONET'S    RRTDE. 


as  IiG  wrung  that  young  nuin's  hand;  "you  ah*,  1  swiua! 
And  your  vvife*B  another!    Long  may  you  wave!'* 

8ir  Evorard  laughed  aloud  now  at  the  recollection. 

"  Money  can  nevor  npuy  our  obligation  to  that  worthy 
artist.  Mt*y  his  shadow  never  be  less!  We  shall  go  over 
to  Dc^bbRvilia  and  see  him.,  and  have  our  pictures  taken, 
next  year.  Look,  Harriett!  how  the  chalky  cliffs  are 
melting  into  the  blue  above!  One  parting  peep  at  Eng- 
land, and  so  a  long  good-bye  to  the  old  land!'*  he  said, 
taking  off  his  hat,  and  standing,  radiant  and  happy,  with. 
Hm  June  sunlir^ht  on  his  }iundE;cme  head. 


!  h 


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5  Baronet 'h  Bride. 

6  iie;iii  Tuncrede 

7  Bcuiah 

8  Black  i',eauty 

9  Black  Rock 

10  Bondman,  The 

11  Camillo 

12  Chaplain's  Daughter 

13  ('hildren  of  the  Abbey 
11  Cloister  and  th(3  Hearth 
1.5  Corsica n  Jkothens 

16  Count  of  Monte  Cristo 

17  Deemster,  The 

18  Donovan 

19  Dora  Thome 

20  Duke's  Secret,  The 

21  Earl's  Heir,  The 

22  East  liynne 

23  Edmund  Dantes 

24  Elsie  Venner 

25  Esttlla's  Husband 
20  Foli.v  Holt 

27  File  Number  113 

28  I'irst  Violin,  The 

29  Fou).  Play 

i^O  Ccrtrude's  Marriat'e 


31  Cold  Elsie 

32  Golden  Butterfly,  The 

33  Handy  Andy 

34  Hardy  Norseman,  A 

35  Heiress  of  Glendowcr 

36  Her  Ransom 

37  His  Guardian  Angel, 

38  Inez 

39  In  Golden  Days 

40  In  the  Schillin'gscourt 

41  Ivanhoe 

42  Jane  J'^yre 

43  Jeanne 

44  John  Halifax 

45  Kfnihvorth 

46  ]\night  Errant 

47  Lady  Evelyn 

48  Lady  of  the  Rubies 

49  Lamplighter,  The 

50  Last  Day>  of  Pompeii 

51  Last  of  the  Mohicans 

62  Leola  IXale's  Fortune 

63  l>eslie's  Loyalty 

64  Little  jlinister,  The 

55  Lorrie 

56  Lover  or  Friend 

57  Love's  Dilonfima 

68  Lucille;  or,  the  Lady  of 
Darracourt 


, 


^^TiBLTHI  Lt'B'RA.'Ry-Coniinued, 


Ri  i  > 


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50 
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01 
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(17 

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(IS) 
70 
71 
72 
7". 
74 
V.'i 
70 
"(7 
<  1 

79 
JO 
ijl 
S2 
K\ 
84 
85 
86 
87 
8S 
8!) 
90 
01 
92 
9:i 
94 

96 
97 


M.'ij^d.ilon's  Vow 

MMrl)!(!  Fail!),  Tlio 

Mur'iuis,  'I  ho 

Martyred  IjOVO,  A 

Mary  St.  John 

Miciia  Clarkf; 

Kol  Like  Utl.iT  r.irlM 

iSiirso  Kovcl's  Mistake 

(>l'l  MnMi'scll'M  Sccrot 

OKI  Myddlcion's  Money 

().Uv('r  Twist 

(Mivia 

Only  .1  (iirl's  Love 

Only  tlio  (iovorness 

(>iily  Olio  liOve 

Our  Mutual  l-'riond 

Owl's  Nest,  The 

rastor's  l)au^';iiter 

i  j-iiicc  f)f  Iho  liouso  of 

I'avid 
I'riiicofis  of  llio  Moor 
I'ut  Yoiirsoll  in  Hisl'lacri 
(♦ut'on  of  ti'o  iule,  'Jho 
(^iio   V'aclis 
Quwnie's  Whim 
]{ol)ins()n  Crusoo 
l^omanco  of  Two  Worlds 
Itussian  Oypsy,  The 
.Saniantlia  at  kSaratop;a 
Scarlet  Letter,  'lh(i 
Scottish  Cliiefs 
Second  AMfe,  'J'he 
She  Loved  Him 
Sifjn  of  the  Four,  The 
Silas  Marner 
Sketch  Jtook 
So  Fair,  So  False 
So  Nearly  Lost 
Son  of  .^Ionte  Cristo 


98  Staunch  of  Heart 

9!)  Stella's  I'ortuno 

100  St  Cuthbcrt's  Tower 

101  Stepping  Heavenward 

102  Storyof a^Vcdding llinj; 
10;i  Study  in  Scarlet 

104  Kuii.-.hino  and  Loses 

105  Tide  of  Two  Cities 
100  Ten  N  i^'h  ts  in  a  1  'a  r  1 1  oom 

107  TdTihle  Temptation 

108  'Ihaddeu.s  of  Warsaw 

109  'Ihehna 

110  Ti\orns    and    Orango 

Blossoms 

111  Three  Guardsmen,  Tlio 

112  Thrcnc  of  David 

113  Th».se  Wester  ton   Vx'wU 

114  '■J'i-i'UKun;  L-Tuid 

115  Twin  Lieutenants,  The 
IKi  Two  Orph:ins 

117  I'lK-le  'Join's  Cal);ii 

118  1  nder  Two  l''lags 

119  Unseen   j'aidegrotjm 

120  Usurper  The" 

121  Vendetta 

122  Very  Hard  Casli 
12:5  Vicar  of  AVakefield 

124  Wasted  Love,  A 

125  We  Two 
12()  Wee  Wifie 

127  White  Company,  The 

128  Wife  of  Monte  Cristo 

129  Who  Wins 

1150  Woman  Against  Woman 

llil  Woman's  Soul,  A 

i;i2  Won  by  Wailing 

ln;j  Wormwood 

l:i4  Wounded  Heart,  A 

135  Wooed  and  Married 


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